The Irregulars : At The Opera
by Kerowyn
Summary: After a night on the town, friends and bandmates Alexander Holmes and Solei Watson are confronted with a problem that tests the old maxim, There is nothing new under the sun. But the real mystery is: Why?
1. Sunday : The Day After the Night Before

_Author's Note: It has been almost exactly 8 years since I published this piece for the first time. A lot has happened. I am eight years older. Eight years smarter? And although I haven't published here in a long time, I have kept writing. Sometimes I return to old stories, I laugh, I cry, I cringe. And sometimes I want a do over. _

_So I did it over. _

_But I didn't want to delete the first version, since I thought it would be rather interesting for people to see the changes I made and how they affected the story. However, [sensibly] does not permit users to publish the same story twice. Therefore, I decided to overwrite the old version with the new, and make little notes at the end about what I changed and why, which you can skip if you like. It's like a Commentary Track!_

_Given the fact that I rewrote large parts of this over the course of the last 6 months or so, there may be some inconsistencies in plot and formatting. Please let me know if you find a weird section or something that doesn't make sense. Some errors are invisible until someone else points them out._

_ As the title suggests, this is one in a series of stories about a punk band called "The Irregulars", who are indeed a bit less than regular. Those stories are not required reading, but if you like this story, you may like those as well. Cheers!_

_.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•._

_P.S. When I first wrote this, I had never seen Phantom of the Opera, nor read it. I have since done both, in addition to "Maskerade" by Terry Pratchett, which is really worth a read. _

_Also, the image for this story is an old poster for the opera "The Pearl Fishers" I got off Wikipedia._

* * *

**_Sunday: The Day After the Night Before_**

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in the person of Sherlock Holmes, was fond of quoting the Scripture verse, "There is nothing new under the sun." More or less I would have to agree. Take a world lit class and you'll see what I mean. The characters and the details change, but the basic stories remain the same.

Recent events have led me to reconsider this particular axiom. I don't really expect to be believed. I hardly believe it myself, and I was there.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Solei Watson; I'll be your narrator this evening. You'll be meeting my buddy and band mate Alexander Holmes later on. You may have noticed an amusing connection between our names. Pure coincidence, I assure you. Lorelei would call it a sign from the gods, but according to her "Guinness" is also a sign from the gods. It began on Sunday morning.

**_Sunday_**

It might be more correct to say it all began on a Saturday afternoon. That was when I got the phone call from Lorelei Moriarty proposing an impromptu shopping spree, which certainly beat the agonizing over fall classes that I had been doing. Shopping turned into dinner at our favorite local, where we met James Mortimer and Alex Holmes, followed by an extremely leisurely stroll to our other usual drinking places.

"The band's all here!" Lorelei shrieked with glee when we encountered Kevin Lestrade, the fifth member of the Irregulars, in the Sundown Bar. Her attempt at a hug was more of a tackle, but Kevin reacted like a true musician: he didn't spill his beer.

It was well past closing when we left, gently steering Kevin into a taxi. Lorelei and James piled in after him, with Lei shouting out the window that she would see me at home as the taxi darted into traffic.

Alex and I tend to be more restless after a night on the town, and we took off down the street. London during the day is crawling with tourists and businessmen; busy people going, going, going. But when night falls, the interesting people come out and you can see the true face of the City, ancient and wise. A thin mist took the edge off the late summer heat.

"Which way?" I asked. Alex was a native to these streets, but even he looked undecided.

"Where are we going?"

Silly question, I thought.

"We were just going," I said.

"Going where?"

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the moment. But Alex's question somehow took on cosmic significance.

"Where are we going?" I took a running jump and landed rather neatly on a bus stop bench. "What are we going with our lives? I'm going to medical school, and you're going to cop school and James is going off to Switzerland to play with atoms and Kevin is getting a real-person job and Lorelei should get her shit together and be a real musician and stop letting us hold her back."

It was probably the alcohol.

For a moment, Alex looked like he was about to say something sarcastic, but it turned into a grin. He pulled me off bench, grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed me toward the intersection.

"I meant," he said, "are we going to turn right to your flat or are we going left to my flat? They are equidistant from here."

"Oh."

"What was all that purpose stuff about?"

"Nothing."

"Excuse me, dearies." We both turned, startled, to look at the little old woman who had addressed us. She was barely five foot, and pulled the tartan shopping trolley that seemed to be standard issue to a certain variety of elderly English women. "I think you dropped this."

She held out a gold pence piece, which Alex took automatically. I only carry plastic, and in any case Alex was carrying both my wallet and phone, since I have never yet worn a sarong that came with pockets.

"This isn't mine," he said, "hey, wait!"

The little old lady was already halfway down the block, but she turned and called back.

"Keep it anyway! For good luck!"

Alex shrugged and was about to pocket it when something caught his attention. He held the coin out under one of the streetlights, trying to get a better look. I was mostly raised in America, and I never got the hang of British money, which was the main reason I carried plastic, but even I noticed something odd about the coin.

"That's not the Queen, is it?"

"It's a queen. Victoria Regina."

"What?" I grabbed the coin from him and held it close. I had been in England long enough to recognize the rather stern outline of Queen Victoria. The date on the reverse was rather worn, but it seemed to be 1890-something. We glanced at each other and then after the woman, who had already disappeared around a corner.

"This is worth a lot, isn't it?" I asked Alex.

"At least 20 shillings. That's a full sovereign. A pound," he explained.

"That doesn't seem like a lot."

"Of pure gold."

I nearly dropped the thing. Alex caught it and stuffed it into his pocket.

"C'mon," he said. "Before you catch your death out here."

"Are you kidding? This is only like the fifth warm day since I moved here."

Alex had a comeback prepared, but I never heard it. Halfway across the street, I had an attack of vertigo. It was as if the tablecloth of the world had been yanked out from under me. I teetered for a moment and fell to one knee. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Alex was having similar problems. And just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

"What was …" I started, but I was rather rudely interrupted by the sudden appearance of a horse bearing down on us. We scrambled over the cobblestones for the sidewalk as the carriage thundered by, and the drive nearly fell off the back of the box trying to yell at us.

I couldn't tell you how long we stood there. It took at least a few minutes for my brain to get back into gear.

"Did we just nearly get run over by a hackney cab?" I asked.

"Hansom," Alex corrected automatically.

"Have we gone mad? Look at my pupils, does it look like I have a concussion?"

"How should I know? That's…"

This time we were interrupted by your garden-variety London bobby, complete with truncheon and funny hat.

"What's all this then?" He said, looking between the two of us. Alex, he merely glared at, but he stared at me with an expression of outright disbelief.

"Well," he prodded, after we just stared back at him. "Do you have any kind of reasonable explanation for being out here in the middle of the night, and looking no better than you ought to be, too?"

"No," I said.

"No?"

"Not really," Alex added. This was enough for the bobby, who grabbed Alex by the elbow.

"All right then. Why don't we have a sit down in the station, and you can try and think of a good reason."

Despite being nominally on the side of law-and-order, Alexander Holmes had cultivated a healthy disrespect for authority. I say healthy in that he very rarely openly disobeyed. He smiled and nodded, and went ahead and did things his way anyway. It was generally very effective, but there are some situations you can't talk your way out of.

So when the bobby reached for me, Alex took advantage of the distraction to punch the man in the solar plexus. The man made an odd _whuf-_ing sort of noise, and collapsed gently to the pavement. A few moments later he had recovered enough to blow his police whistle, but by that point we were two blocks away and accelerating.

Alex led the way initially, but his familiarity with London's streets didn't extend a hundred years in the past. We hit a couple dead ends before we encountered the Embankment. We jogged along that for a bit, before suspicious looks made us turn away from the river and back into the warren of city streets, but we didn't get much further before I had to stop for breath. Running from the cops in flip-flops and a sarong is much more difficult than it looks.

"We need to get off the streets," Alex said.

"And go where? I seriously doubt either of our flats are still there. Were still there?" I swore; this was going to get confusing.

"And if the cops don't lock us up, they'll throw us in the looney bin." I wouldn't blame them either. The looney bin would be a logical place for someone claiming to be from the future.

"We just need somewhere to hide out for a bit," Alex said.

"Maybe a church," I said, after a moment. "Sanctuary, and all that?"

"Maybe not," Alex said, looking over my head. I followed his gaze and saw the word 'London Opera House' picked out in chipped gold lettering on the building behind us.

I had only been to the opera once, with my friend Lorelei. One of the boys she was stringing along at the moment was in the orchestra and he gave her tickets. The relationship ended abruptly when Lei found him making out with the second chair cellist. Lei's romances generally ended in a fit of drama.

But I had been to any number of auditoriums, music halls, theatres and bars with a stage and shoddy sound system. And one thing these buildings generally had in common was an unlocked side door. In this case, it was in the small and slightly damp alleyway that ran behind the Opera House. There were two men standing near it, smoking cigarettes and looking bored with the world. (There's a group of them outside of every theatre. No, seriously. Go check.)

As we stood there, hidden in the shadows, the men crushed out their cigarettes and set off down the alley in the opposite direction. The door they allowed to swing shut behind them, but there was a familiar wooden clack and when we got close I saw there was a small piece of wood jammed between the door and the frame.

The backstage area was silent and empty, barely lit by the ghost light. We tried to move quietly, but every step seemed to echo in the huge auditorium. But either no one heard us or no one was there to hear us, because we made our way up to the balcony without incident.

As I stretched out on the worn carpet, I suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long day, even before the time travel.

"I'll keep watch," Alex said.

"Against what? Ghosts?" I teased, already drifting off to sleep.

"Maybe," Alex teased back, and I fell asleep.

I woke up several times that night. It wasn't the worst bed I'd ever slept in, but it was definitely in the top five. Each time I woke up long enough to confirm that yes, Alex was still there (he fell asleep pretty quickly), and yes, we were still in an opera house. Each time I dozed off again, hoping to wake up in the right time and place.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	2. Sunday: The Crack of Noon

**_Sunday: The crack of noon _**

When I woke up for reals, it was probably close to noon. Skylights filtered the dusty, dreaming sunbeams, and a low hum of activity rose from below. I sat up slowly. I had aches in all sorts of new places, plus the familiar throbbing in my head from the alcohol last night. I really should know better by now, but that's human nature for you.

"Hey," Alex said, appearing at the balcony doors, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He was balancing two wooden plates and two mismatched china cups. "Er, I've got breakfast."

Breakfast looked like rubbery eggs, cold toast, and cold tea.

"How?"

"There's a buffet laid on for the workers downstairs. I just walked up and grabbed some."

I gave Alex an appraising look as he set down the plates. He was wearing his usual button-up shirt and dark trousers. It wouldn't pass close inspection, but guy's fashions don't change much. He looked more or less like every guy in this century.

"Are we really…" I started, but I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah. I think we really are. I found this lying around downstairs." Alex shifted slightly, pulled a rumpled and greasy newspaper from his back pocket, and handed it over. The date was 4 August. 1890.

We ate in silence for a bit. I tried to get my thoughts together.

"You still have that coin?" I asked. He did. It looked pretty much the same as it had last night. One side, Victoria Regina, the other, George slaying a dragon. It was still scuffed, but the date was definitely 1890.

"So that woman gave us some kind of …time coin and it took us back in time somehow. But, why?"

"Time coin?" Alex snorted. "That's real logical."

"And what's your oh-so logical explanation?"

"Hallucination, maybe." Alex said after a brief pause that told me he didn't have anything better. "A dream. We could have been mugged and now we're comatose in a hospital."

"I see. So we're having a collective coma?"

"Hey, this could be my coma and you're just a hallucination. It's not any more improbable than a time portal."

"True."

"So, why?" Alex asked the ceiling.

"That's what I asked you."

"Okay, if your time coin theory is correct, then it must be some sort of machine. If it's a machine, that means someone built it and presumably they are responsibly for...this."

"Well," I said sarcastically, "if that's true, then tomorrow we can expect that old lady or Yoda or somebody to show up at the door and explain everything."

We waited for a moment to allow 'Yoda' to dramatically appear. This did not occur.

"I saw cleaning staff downstairs," Alex said. "We should move."

"No, we need to get clothes," I said. "At least, I need to get clothes. You might pass inspection, but given how that cop reacted last night, I need something different to wear."

This took some serious sneakiness on Alex's part. As the less suspicious looking one of us, he set off looking for the costume storage.

While he wandered the opera house, I tried to make out what was going on onstage without being seen. So far it seemed to be mostly men in work clothes, hauling, sawing, hammering, and painting. Actual opera was not yet in evidence.

I carefully peered over the edge of the balcony. There was a group of well-dressed men huddled in conversation. The words 'audition', 'ruined', 'money', and 'Bach' drifted up to the balcony.

Eventually one of these men peeled off from the group and began arranging music on the concert grand piano, which sat in gilded isolation in the orchestra pit. There was a moment of quiet expectation, and then the opening measures of something complicated. I eventually decided it was attempt at Bach, but it was difficult to tell as the music swung back and forth across the tempo without actually hitting it.

Some time later, Alex returned with a huge pile of clothes and an annoyed expression.

"I had to ask for directions," Alex explained, "and once I'd asked for directions I had to explain why I wanted a pile of women's clothing."

"Well?"

"I told him that one of the singers had me running errands. I had to get pretty sarcastic at him before he'd push off."

"Well, I appreciate it, Alexi."

"Thanks."

"Now push off so I can change."

Now, I considered myself fairly average in most respects; average height, average weight, average brown hair. But compared to the average woman of the opera, I was a giant. The blouse and skirt were fitted for a woman a few pounds lighter and wearing a corset. I managed to get one on, wincing as some threads snapped. But they didn't seem to be attached to anything vital, so I called it a success. The hat was easier, though it didn't match.

"Looks good," Alex said automatically, when I came around the corner.

"Really?"

"No, you look like somebody's poor relative."

"As long as I don't get arrested for that, we're cool."

"I dunno. You hear some weird stories about the Victorians."

"Okay, we look like we belong. Now what?"

"Er," Alex glanced at his watch, as if that might help. It other circumstances it would have been amusing to see Alex out of his depth for once, but now was not a good time.

The discordant music which had been the backdrop to the last few minutes suddenly stopped, and I suddenly had an idea.

Now, I am a doctor by training, but I am a musician at heart. My mom had made me take piano lessons when I was seven and there was no stopping me after that. I quickly moved on to the flute, clarinet and even the violin briefly before I found the drums. I had an absolute passion for percussion, to the point where I practically had to join the school band to justify spending entire evenings in the garage with my drum set.

More recently I had been drafted into the band The Irregulars by my friend Lorelei, who was the lead vocalist (Alex played bass). But I kept up the piano, mostly to please Mum, but also for the variety.

I headed down the stairs, and through the double doors to the main house, Alex following like a shadow.

"I've got an idea," I said to Alex, "but maybe you should stay out of sight."

Alex seemed to be following my train of thought. He just winked and disappeared.

"Thank you Mr. Anderson. We will get back to you." The young man at the bench bowed stiffly and hurried out of the theatre. As he passed I could see him wiping the sweat off his forehead. The three men in the front row bent their heads for a worried consultation.

"If he could just get over his stage fright he'd be all right." The one on the left said half-heartedly.

"If he was that nervous in front of three people, he might have a fit of apoplexy in front of a full house," said the one on the right.

"His mother is one of our finest patrons. If we turn him away we might as well close our doors."

"If we let him play we'll be a laughing stock from here to Paris."

"He's as good as any other applicant. All of our best are being lured away by LaValle." There was a moment of silence as the three men contemplated their rival.

"We will hire him as an understudy," the man in the middle said, pronouncing the words with all the authority of the Voice of God.

"Understudy to whom?" The man on the left said sourly.

This debate was tossed back and forth a bit, but it sounded like an old argument. I decided

"I understand you gentlemen are looking for a pianist?" I asked sweetly. Three head swiveled to stare at me. The expressions on their faces were an interesting range between puzzlement and disbelief.

"I guarantee I can play better than the gentleman who just left." I said, with a hopefully winning smile, after the silence had stretched on a bit. "I rather prefer Bach myself, but I am quite good at most of the classical composers." This was, strictly speaking, a lie. I thought Bach's work was ostentatious bordering on the pretentious, but that wasn't to say he didn't have his moments.

"Who are you, uh, madam?" The man in the middle rose and bowed gracefully in my direction, trying to act as if he hadn't been surprised at all.

"Solei Watson. I am recently arrived from, um, India." I said, thinking quickly. The mention of the Crown Jewel of the British Empire went some way toward soothing ruffled feathers. Everyone knew that they did things differently in foreign parts; hopefully it would go some way toward explaining my inevitable _faux pas_.

"I am Mr. Loman, the owner here at the London Opera. This is our good manager Mr. Squires and our conductor Dr. Cocteau. You say that you are interested in a position here?"

I believe that is exactly what I just said, repeated back to me.

"Yes. I can give you an audition right now if you like." I said. I moved toward the piano without waiting for an answer. Mr. Loman indicated that this would be acceptable. The sheet music was still on the stand. I gave it a cursory examination, cracked my knuckles and began to play.

Fortunately, it was a piece I had performed before at a recital a few years ago. I could play music from the sheet without having seen it before, but it wasn't something I wanted to pull in a professional audition.

I finished the Bach, and moved straight into a Beethoven sonata. And, because I could, I segued from Beethoven into Glenn Miller. "_Moonlight Serenade"_ was comparatively simple when put next to Beethoven, but it was also a piece that wouldn't be composed for another fifty years or so. It added a certain flare to my résumé.

As I played, I watched the three men out of the corner of my eye. Loman was clearly Mr Moneybags. Only someone very rich would be able to get away with a jeweled ring that was so unbelievably ugly. Physically, he was rather tall and skeletal, like he slept upside down with the bats at night. Squires was the sort of man who is always perched on the edge of his seat, barely able to keep still. Shorter, with a rather bushy beard. Possibly the brains of the outfit. Cocteau was staring fixedly into space, wincing slightly when I made an error. French, definitely French.

When the last notes faded into silence, I folded my hands and faced the judges. Mr. Loman looked pleased; Dr. Cocteau looked overjoyed and Mr. Squires looked as if he was planning something.

"I think, my lady, we would be willing to take you on. Pro tem, of course." Loman said evenly. I could see the thoughts swirling in his head. A mysterious stranger walks in and proceeds to outclass every other applicant. There was definitely something suspicious about this. On the other hand, she can play and we need someone who isn't going to keel over at the sight of a spotlight. Dr. Cocteau had no such apprehensions.

"Wonderful, dear! Just wonderful." He gushed, despite disapproving glances from Loman. "Some work needs to be done in the second movement of your sonata, but still. What was that last piece you played? Eloquent in its simplicity with a direct emotional approach. Do you have much experience in opera?"

"No, not much. I have played in smaller groups though." I said with absolute honesty. The fact that it was the drums for a punk/metal/ska/whatever we felt like at the time band went unmentioned.

"Nevertheless," Loman said sharply, "we shall see how things fall out. Room and board will be part of your wages. Practice is at nine in the morning, every morning. We shall start you out at a salary of three pounds a month. Is this agreeable?"

Three pounds a month was insane. Clearly the value of the British pound had changed over the centuries. But Loman said it as if he didn't expect an argument.

"I shall need a suitable wardrobe. My luggage was, uh, lost. On the ship." I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out if three pounds was agreeable.

"Where did you say you were from?" Squires asked.

"Er, India," I said, thinking fast. I'd never been to India in my life. Maybe I should have lied about being from America instead. It wasn't technically a lie…

"And your luggage was lost?"

"On the boat."

"Where are you staying?"

"With a friend," I said. Alex was a friend and I was staying in the same space as him.

"Your parents? Family?"

"In India."

"India?" Squires repeated. There was an amused spark in his eye, like a plotting schoolboy.

"India."

"Husband?"

"No, thank you."

"Lover?"

"I say, Squires," Loman interrupted the rapid-fire interrogation. "The girl can play. Apart from that who gives a damn?"

"It's brilliant!" Mr. Squires cried, with a snap of his fingers. "We'll be rich!"

I was glad to see that Loman and Cocteau were also looking at Squires as if they feared for his sanity. I would hate to think that random exclamations were a normal occurrence.

"What are you talking about, man?"

"We can bill her as the Indian Princess! Emerged from the Wilds of the Subcontinent with Sublime Musical Skill! Performing exclusively with the London Opera Company! Those bast- blokes at the Theatre Royal won't know what hit them!" Squires was only the second person I'd met who could speak like a playbill. The first was currently residing in the depths of the University's media productions department.

"We'll send someone out to buy her one of those Indian dresses. It will be fantastic. She'll be the hit of the season!"

I wondered if he had considered the problem of me being several skin shades lighter than the average Indian woman. I decided not to mention it in case he developed a brilliant solution involving skin dye.

"We'll have to do something about the name though."

"Everyone, this is Miss Solei Watson."

It had taken some serious negotiation to wiggle out of being given some faux-Hindi stage name, but I managed to convince Squires that my current name was sufficiently exotic. That, and I threatened to develop a case of amnesia every time he called me by the wrong name.

"She had just arrived from Calcutta and the court of the Maharaja there. She will be our pianist this season. I hope you will all welcome her to our little family." Mr. Squires said everything like he was an actor in a melodrama; he either gushed or lamented. The expressions of my fellow cast mates gave me little hope for a cheery welcome. They ranged from indifference (the orchestra) to condescension (the actresses) to lust (one of the actors) and naked envy on the part of the guy whose place I had usurped. Fun times.

"Hello." I said hopefully. Silence. Crickets chirped.

"Well, then," Squires said, oblivious, "I will leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Cocteau."

Dr. Cocteau gazed at me as if I were the worst talentless hack he had ever had this misfortune to meet. (All good music teachers do this.) I returned his gaze evenly.

"Well." He snapped, looking straight at me but addressing the whole stage. "We have precisely one week to transform this group of [pause to indicate disgust] artists into the cast of _Bharata_. Places!"

There was a brief flurry of action as the actors scurried for the wings and the orchestra made its way to pit. A few minutes were spent in the inevitable tuning of instruments and I hurriedly examined my sheet music.

As I mentioned before, I'd rather be practicing snare than playing opera, but it seemed I had little choice if I wanted to keep a roof over my head. I became aware of the curious glances from my fellow musicians and the Glare of Death from Mr. Anderson in the stalls. I pretended to ignore them, while sneaking glances of my own. Alex had disappeared once I started my audition, but he had yet to reappear, though I looked for him among the stage crew.

I was also trying to get comfortable in this damned dress. The dress Alex had stolen earlier was torn, stained, and a size too small, so Mr. Squires had gotten one of the singers donate a dress to me until "more suitable clothing" could be obtained. Thankfully, it was not the standard corset and bustle item that I had been expecting, but rather a loose gown tied on with a sash. I looked like I belonged in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, but at least I blended in.

"Settle down. We only have half a day, so this better be right the first time." Dr. Cocteau grumbled. I noticed that his French accent was more pronounced when he was angry. A few pointed glances were directed at Anderson, whose audition was apparently responsible for the loss of practice.

We plunged into the overture and played through to the curtain rising. At this point we had to stop so Loman could yell at the chorus for being in the wrong spot.

I pretended to examine my sheet music and noted the reactions of the orchestra. This time, I saw expressions of mixed satisfaction and relief. Finally, a tempo. Anderson fumed in the stalls.

* * *

_Author's Note_

_Regarding the problem of continuity: I established in the other stories that Alex and Solei don't like their first names, but in this story I let all that slide. And I will continue to let it slide, since I actually like this way better, plus it's less confusing._

_Regarding the time coin: I realize this sounds silly, but I dislike the type of fanfiction in which time travel occurs for no specific reason. Especially in a fandom like Sherlock Holmes, I feel like things should have reasons. _

_I sort of, kind of hinted at the idea that Alex and Solei are sent back in time for a specific purpose in the old version, but I didn't really flesh out the idea well. It wasn't a big change plot-wise, but it did require a lot of extra words._

_Regarding Moonlight Serenade: Initially, this was "My Immortal" by Evanescence. I still like the song, but it seems jarring in this context. Take note: the songs which seem cool and classic now may not withstand the test of time._

_Regarding the problem of a piano in the opera: When I was first writing this, I went looking for an opera with a piano part in, since I'd already established that solei played piano and I didn't want to give her sudden expertise in another instrument. _

_For some reason, I got the impression that Tristan und Isolde was such an opera. Further research suggests that this is not the case. It was never terribly important to the plot, but it bothers me nonetheless. So I decided to make up an opera here, which can have a kazoo part in it if I like._

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	3. Sunday : New Friends and Old

**_Sunday: New Friends and Old_**

The London Opera strongly reminded me of high school; the same pointless drama, the same intense competition, the same god-awful cafeteria food. Room and board were both provided backstage. Apparently the demands of an opera cast member were so intense that even leaving to sleep in one's own apartment was too much of hassle. I think the real reason had more to do with keeping the stars out of scandal than anything else. This suited me just fine, since it gave me time to catch my breath with a roof over my head.

I was sitting alone at dinner. The other tables were occupied by clearly-defined cliques which I did not yet have membership to. Normally I would have been miffed at being snubbed like that, but I was trying to think logically about my situation while fighting down a rising sense of panic.

Alex was still MIA. This was a fairly usual state of affairs; Alex had a talent for disappearing when he wanted to. But he was also physical proof that I wasn't suffering from some complex combination of hallucination and amnesia, so I rather liked having him in sight.

I had been ostensibly kidnapped by forces unknown and was now a member of the 1890-ish cast of the London Opera. There were a number of strange new thoughts associated with this idea and it was hard to think properly about this with the remnants of a hangover still knocking insistently against the inside of my head. I was so totally absorbed in my thoughts that I didn't even notice I had company until he cleared his throat.

"Ahem." I jumped and stared at him. He was a youngish man with dark hair and a dab of paint across one cheek.

"Er, hi."

"Hello. My name is Virgil Hawkins. I work on the stage crew."

"Solei Watson. I'm with the band." I never get tired of that line. Ahem, moving on. Virgil looked like a stage hand but he was built like a dancer, or a rock climber. Thin and wiry, probably with a surprising amount of strength. Rather like Alex, in fact, although in Alex's case I knew it was cross-country running.

I noticed that Virgil and I were being surreptitiously watched by more or less half the dining room and came to the conclusion that he had been deputized to figure out who this new girl was.

"So you've just arrived from India? You're going to be the talk of the season."

"So it seems." I said evenly.

"Where exactly in India?"

"Calcutta." I lied, remembering Squires little speech earlier.

"Calcutta does not have a maharaja." Virgil pointed out.

"Mr. Squires exaggerated a little." I replied, thinking furiously. It might have been a trick, designed to prove I wasn't from India. Though my mother was British, I had been raised and educated in America, which had left me with a somewhat shaky grasp of international history. It had also left me with an accent that I took pains to conceal under a proper West End dialect, because when fifteen people open the conversation with "American, eh?" it really makes you want to punch number sixteen.

"I heard you playing earlier. You are quite good." I shrugged off the compliment.

"Natural talent, I suppose. I certainly never practiced much."

"What brings you to London?" Virgil asked.

"Mom sent me back." I said, after a moment's thought. I was going to have to think up a more comprehensive alibi if everybody was going to be as inquisitive as Virgil the Stagehand. "I guess she thought London was a better environment for me, or something. Not too many opportunities for a white chick in India."

I winced as soon as I said it. I was also going to have to cut back on the slang. Virgil refrained from comment; in fact, he seemed to be thinking about something else entirely. He came to a conclusion of his own and stood to leave. "Well, if there is anything I might do for you…"

"Actually," I said, knowing full well that no one ever expects to be taken up on that offer. "I am just dying for a cigarette."

Every theatre in the world has a back door where the crew goes for their cigarette breaks, and every one of these back doors looks exactly the same. There are always a few crates piled up nearby in lieu of seating and the ground is always coated with cigarette butts, so that it looks like the aftermath of some weird snowstorm. It was comforting to know that some things never changed.

Virgil presented me with a hand-rolled cigarette and struck a match for me. Clearly some changes had been made in the tobacco industry over the intervening century. The tobacco flavor was much more intense and the smoke was charcoal black.

As I said, I'm a pre-med student. I knew full well what I was doing to my lungs, but I found it hard to care. I could quit once we got home. I had plenty of practice at that.

I took a pull and nearly choked, my lungs unaccustomed to the acrid smoke. It was rather like sticking your head in a barrel of oil and taking a deep breath.

Virgil was puffing on his own cigarette, apparently staring reflectively off into space while watching me out of the corner of his eye. I would have given a lot to know what was going through his mind. Probably something along the lines of "Crazy foreign wimmen." Then again, he was in show business. After awhile, very little seems shocking anymore.

"So," I said, after the silence had deepened a bit, "what brings you into the wonderful world of London theatre?"

"Can't sing, can't act, can't play, but I can lift heavy objects." He shrugged, amused and without regret.

"Born here?" He gave a general wave of his hand to indicate he had been born in the general vicinity.

"How long have you worked here?"

"Here? A few months. As a stage hand, five years, or thereabouts."

"What happened to the pianist who was here before?" I asked.

"He was courted away by the Opera company at the Theatre Royal . Quite a few of the people who used to work here now work for them. Ruining the cultural life of our Great city." He added, sounding as if he was quoting someone.

"I wouldn't think that this town could support two Opera companies."

"It could," Virgil said. "Just not these two companies. There is … bad blood between the management. Neither will be content while the other still exists."

"Arias at twenty paces." I chuckled. "This'll be interesting."

"We're sure to win out, with you in the orchestra that is." I looked askance at Virgil. He was staring intently at the tip of his cigarette, as if he'd said more than he meant. Holy crap. He was actually trying to flirt with me. How cute.

"Oy! Virgil! Get yer arse back in here!" One of the other workmen stuck his head out the door, caught sight of feminine ears and edited himself for content.

"Virg, we need you to help with the backdrop." Virgil stamped out his cigarette, tipped his hat at me and followed the other man inside. I puffed on my own cigarette, mildly bewildered and slightly pleased.

I heard footsteps in the alley and turned to see who it was.

"Those things will kill you, y'know." Alex said casually. Alexander Holmes, college student, bass player, professional amateur detective, one of my best friends and band mates, was leaned casually against the wall.

"Not if I get them first." I replied, determined not to be outcooled. He'd probably been waiting around the corner, waiting for a dramatic moment. Alex broke first and grinned at me.

"Good to see you again."

"Ditto. I was beginning to worry I was going nuts."

"You are nuts." Alex replied automatically. C'mon, let's go somewhere else. The walls have ears and all that."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	4. Sunday : Dude, Yoda is so leet

**_Sunday: Dude, Yoda is so leet_**

It wasn't far to a small park with wrought-iron benches, peeling paint, and a sad patch of grass. A worn tweed jacket and brown trousers were draped over the back of the bench.

"Where the hell have you been?" I demanded, oddly comforted by Alex's James Bond routine. Alex actually glanced around to be sure no one was listening before answering.

"Around. I heard your audition. Nice work, by the way." Alex grinned.

"Too bad they don't have an open spot for bass guitar."

"Too bad."

"So," I asked hesitantly, "this is really happening?"

"I guess." It was startling how scary it was that Alexander Holmes, the all-seeing and all-knowing, was as lost as I was.

"Welcome to 1900." I said, trying to wrap my head around the idea.

"17 August, 1890. I found this kid selling newspapers." He explained. "While you were ingratiating yourself to the London opera scene, I was trying to figure out where we were. And finding these." He patted the jacket and I noticed that it was slightly damp.

"That's not very nice, stealing from clotheslines."

"It was a well-stocked clothesline." Alex replied defensively. "Anyway, what happened to the other dress I stole you?"

I had forgotten about the new dress, but I refused to be embarrassed by it. It was much more girly than my usual wardrobe, but once I got used to the sensation it was about to slip off my shoulders I rather liked it. Anyway, what do guys know?

"I've got camouflage _and_ gainful employment. Which is more than you've got." Alex shrugged.

"I don't plan on staying long. You'd better get back to the Opera before you're missed. I'm going to see if I can find any clues in that alley we arrived in."

"What, like a giant neon sign: 'Time machine, over this way'?" I said, but Alex ignored my sarcasm.

"Here's the plan. You stay at the Opera and do your thing. If I can't figure out how we got here, we might be a while and we'll need a place to stay."

"We?"

"What, you're going to make me get a hotel room?"

I rolled my eyes and tried to look annoyed.

"I think I'm getting too old to be sneaking boys into my room."

"You, sneaking boys around? I don't believe it," Alex said.

"Do y'think…" I started. The thought seemed a bit crazy. Alex waited patiently. "I mean, it is kind of convenient that I show up at the right time to get hired. And that woman with the coin back…home. Do you think there might be a reason that we're here and if so, does it have something to do with the Opera?"

"No such thing as a coincidence?" Alex shrugged, but he looked worried.

"I'm going to re-trace our route from the pub last night and see if I can find…something. Take another smoke break around six-ish, I'll meet you outside."

We walked back to the cigarette-strewn alley behind the Opera House and parted ways. I was a little irritated at being dictated to by Alex, but I didn't have any better ideas. After all, what could we do? Declare we were from the future? That would only get us thrown in the looney bin. Try to get back to the University? They'd only laugh at us, and especially me. I suppose we could become superheroes or something, fighting to change the future for the better. But I had a feeling that if that was the Universe's plan, aYoda-like person would soon reveal himself and tell us so.

So, in lieu of anything better to do for the hour until sunset, I practiced my music. _Bharata_ was not especially long, as operas went, but it was still a massive ream of sheet music to get through. I suppose I could look on the bright side and be glad it wasn't _Götterdämmerung_ .

I found a baffling practice room. There were several practice rooms, all in a row, but this was the only one with a piano. The reason it was baffling was that the piano was much larger than the door. There was no possible way for it to get into the room, even turned on its side, without a significant portion of the wall being removed. The only solution I could think of was that the piano was there first, and the wall built up after it.

I pushed the problem of the impossible piano from my mind, and turned to the slightly less impossible problem of the sheet music. I was beginning to think I was in way over my head. I'd never really played piano professionally before, much less with a large Opera company. The possibilities for crashing and burning were endless.

About half way through a tricky segue on the twentieth page, I became aware that someone was listening at the door. My concentration lapsed and the measures came crashing down on me in a horrible atonal mess. I sighed and turned to greet the intruder.

"Hello."

"Oh, hello. I'm sorry I interrupted you." The woman inched around the doorway, and I saw that she was the one whose dress I was wearing. She was a bit shorter than me, but she wore heels that more than compensated for it. Her long blond hair fell artistically over her shoulders and she carried herself with a sort of authoritative grace that many actors try to acquire.

"You play very well," she added, in an obligatory sort of way. "I'm Brook Waters. Soprano."

"I'm Solei Watson. Piano." I replied, doubting very much that was the name she had been born with.

"They say you've just arrived from India." Brook offered, not very subtly fishing for information. I had been expecting this, and I'd been compiling a rough fictional biography in my head.

"My father was in the Army in India, but he died when I was very small. My mother loved the country, so she decided to stay there with my aunt and uncle, who was also in the army. She was the one who taught me how to play the piano. She also decided that I should return to my native land, for a little while at least, so I returned to England."

Brook listened politely and immediately launched into the story of her own origins. She was the daughter of a soprano and a conductor, so she had also learned her art at the feet of her mother. As she recited, I noticed that she skipped lightly over the details of her parents, focusing instead on how much she loved the Opera. By the end of it, I was pretty sure her illustrious parentage was a front for a less dramatic childhood, especially when kept mixing up upstage and downstage.

Granted, I didn't know a thing about 19th century theatre terminology, but it was a pretty safe bet that upstage and downstage were still the same. She grew more animated as the one-sided conversation grew longer and I realized that I was going to have to make my escape soon if I was going to see Alex.

"Oh, but aren't I a silly thing!" She interrupted herself. "I completely forgot why I came looking for you. Mr. Squires sent me looking for you. Your room's been set up and I think whoever they sent to the shops for some of those Indian dresses is back."

Brook led me through the house and upstairs to a rather large office that seemed to be doing double duty as prop storage. Both Mr. Loman and Mr. Squires were waiting for us, along with a tiny Indian woman in a Western dress who was introduced as Mrs. Jhavari. She set to work without a word, taking measurements and muttering to herself in Hindi. After a few minutes work, she stood back and pronounced her judgment.

"Too pale. Too scrawny." She said in precisely accented English. Mrs. Jhavari shook her head at ugly duckling she was being forced to clothe and I hid my amusement. She pulled out her fabric swatches and we decided that I might be able to pull off purple with silver embroidery, and a scarlet and gold number.

"The saris will be done in one week. The price is fifteen shillings." She told Mr. Squires, and to my surprise he didn't try and haggle. Mrs. Jhavari gathered up her fabrics and showed herself out, casting an amused glance back at me.

Mr. Squires pronounced himself delighted that I would be getting my Indian dresses back and he was sure that Brook wouldn't mind lending me some clothes until the saris were done.

"There is something else I would like to talk to you about, Miss Solei." Mr. Squires said, casting a pointed look at Brook. She reluctantly admitted that there was something elsewhere she could be doing and left.

"Now, Miss, er, Watson, is it?" he asked. I nodded. "Hmm. Better lose that. If anyone asks you don't have a last name.

He clearly wasn't expecting an argument, and under normal circumstances I would have given him one. But I had more pressing concerns at the moment than one self-centered male. Like keeping track of my own self-centered male and getting home.

"I am sure you are aware you would not normally be hired so quickly. You may not be aware that your arrival has given us a magnificent opportunity. Your origins will arouse the interest of many of our patrons who have not come to the opera in some time and give us an edge over the …Other Theatre." Squires seemed reluctant to say the name. Mr. Loman made a disgruntled noise. I noticed that he had appropriated a stage throne, encrusted with gilt and glass.

"You mean, the Theatre Royal?" I asked, purposefully pushing buttons. Loman made an extremely disgruntled noise and began pacing the room. Squires winced, but when no outburst came, he kept talking as if I hadn't said anything.

"We are playing a new opera. The title is _Bharata_, but the story is essentially Romeo and Juliet in India. Exotic setting, exciting drama, epic conflict between castes, and now, a pianist from India? _Bellissima_!" Mr. Squires looked as if he was in melodrama heaven. He went on at some length, with the essential point that I was the advertising coup of the year and I should play up the Mysterious Woman from the Wilds of India angle.

"So in addition to your wardrobe, perhaps you could be a little more open about your childhood. Learning music at the hands of an Indian mystic perhaps and the perilous journey back to your motherland, yes?"

I nodded, unable to trust myself not to laugh. It would be one huge act, with the express purpose of boosting ticket sales. Only in showbiz.

"And you had to sell all your possessions in order to pay for the passage to London. Surviving by your Talents Alone…" Squires was talking in playbills again, so I excused myself and left him to it.

Brook was waiting just outside the door, probably attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"What was that about?" She asked.

"Oh, he just wanted to talk about my remuneration." I said, and saw the word go straight over her head. So much for that attempt at 19th century English.

"Room and board and a small stipend. That sort of thing. Does Mrs. Jhavari work here often?" I asked Brook, who I noticed gazing forlornly at the colorful silk swatches Mrs. Jhavari had left behind.

"Yes, she does quite a bit of our more exotic costumes. Every theatre in town goes to her. I never get to wear them, since I'm just in the chorus." Brook pretended indifference and I pretended to believe her.

"It's been an eventful day," I said, with an exaggerated yawn. "I think I'll retrieve my music and go to bed."

"Oh?" Brook sounded surprised. After all, it was only six o'clock. We returned to the practice room for my music, then headed upstairs to where the rooms of the performers were located. I tried to resist the temptation to call them dorms. Certainly they weren't much of an improvement.

It was a rather circuitous route, back through the house and backstage, then up some rickety stairs to a door which had recently been knocked through the wall.

"Mr. Loman bought the block of flats next door," Brook explained. "But most people have places out in the City. It's mostly the corps de ballet and the understudies here."

"It's probably a bit, er, smaller than you're used to." Brook said apologetically. The room was about six feet by eight feet, large enough for a dressing table, bed and wardrobe. It bore a striking resemblance to the cinderblock dorm I had spent my first semester in. I could see why most people chose to sleep elsewhere.

"It will be fine." I assured her, adding to myself, _I don't plan on staying long_. A light well set in the wall provided illumination, and an oil lamp sat in a small mound of dust on the table.

"Well, if you need anything, I'm just two doors that way."

"Night."

"Good night."

I waited until I heard her door shut before I hurried back down to the alley door, trying not to look like I was in a hurry. It was turning into a fine summer evening, and some of the gas lights had been lit. I was utterly unsurprised to find that Alex was not there. I debated the wisdom of lounging about in the alley when I heard something behind me.

"Hey."

"'ello, Al. How'd you get in?"

"Same way as last night. I walked." Alex said irritatedly. He hated to be called Al, which was the only reason I did it. "The security around here is terrible."

"It's not a bank," I said. Alex shrugged, as if that was no excuse. "Did you figure out how we got here?"

"No." He slid down off the stack of crates he had been sitting on. "Not a damn thing. Not even your huge neon sign. We probably shouldn't be talking about this here."

I was about to protest when I saw his point. Serious conversations about time travel might raise some questions as regards to our sanity.

"They gave me a closet cleverly disguised as a bedroom." I said. "I doubt anyone will be listening at the door."

We snuck back up the stairs; I went ahead a few paces to make sure the way was clear and Alex followed at a safe distance. But the living area appeared to be deserted. We didn't run into a single person on the stairs, and the hallway was silent. When I knocked on Brook's door to borrow matches for the oil lamp, I didn't get an answer, so I lit it at the hall light instead.

"I think we could scream as loud as we wanted," I told Alex when I returned to my room. "Everyone is out. It is Sunday, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I knicked a paper." Alex fished out a crumpled copy of the Times. The dateline still read 17 August, 1890. For some reason I kept glancing at it, as if the date might change while I wasn't looking.

"So we were just kicked back more than a hundred years, but to the precise day we left." I said incredulously. "That's a bit suspicious."

"I know. I think that might be the reason we're here now. I mean, on this day particularly. Or maybe we're just seeing patterns where none exist."

Depressing thought. He was right though. Nothing about this had made sense yet.

A familiar beeping noise filled the air. Alex reached into his pocket and flipped out his cell phone without pausing to think.

"Hello?" He said, and realized what he'd just done. He looked rather like he'd just been hit in the back of the head with a dead fish.

"Who is it?" I asked weakly.

"Nobody." He replied, just as stunned. "It was the low battery signal."

"You don't think…"

"Don't be stupid. That's impossible."

"Have you looked where we are?" Alex considered this, and dialed our friend and lead vocalist Lorelei.

"No service." He was carrying my phone also (and my keys. Women's clothes never have decent pockets.) He pulled it out and checked the reception.

"No surprise there. Worth a shot though." I shrugged. "We'd better find a good hiding place for those." Alex cast a glance around the room.

"Budge up." He said, and stuffed the two phones and two sets of keys under the mattress. "I doubt a maid will bother with this room, judging from the layers of dust."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	5. Monday : Plan B

**_Monday: Plan B_**

Monday morning dawned, but brought no Yoda-like figure with perfectly sensible answers for everything. I hadn't been too hopeful that would happen, but it would have been nice.

I rolled out of bed, tripped over Alex, who had lost the game of rock, paper, scissors (best two out of three) and taken up residence on the floor until we could figure out something better, and went to find Miss Brook in order to borrow a clean dress. She insisted on giving me three of them, all in the same Greek goddess style as the first.

"Nice place." I commented, while she pulled the dresses from her wardrobe.

"Oh thank you. Still, it's not as nice as some of the primas' rooms." In any case, it was a distinct improvement over my room, if only because it didn't have the same air of abandonment. It was the same size, but the dressing table was littered with brushes and glass bottles and the back of the door was covered with old playbills and illustrations torn from fashion magazines.

"If we're going to be here much longer," I commented, upon returning to the room, "You're going to need to find a change of clothes."

"I'm going to look around here today," Alex said, pretended he hadn't heard me. "Maybe there's something around here that will give me a clue."

"Like what?"

"I dunno." Alex shrugged easily. "I'll know it when I find it." That was a pretty good summary of Alex's investigative style. It actually worked fairly well, except for those few occasions when it led to some interesting detours.

I checked the hallway to make sure it was clear, and Alex left to investigate whatever he could find. I counted slowly to ten before following. It doesn't matter what century you're from; having guys sneaking out of your room in the early hours of the morning is never classy.

The orchestra had morning rehearsals without the singers, while the Corps de Ballet practiced somewhere in the depths of the building. The singers and actors were "resting" from the exertions of the night before. We had to stop twice when I missed my timing and had to hurry to catch up with the rest. Dr. Cocteau glared at me while I fumbled with my music, and I muttered to myself about the impossibility of learning an entire opera in one day.

We paused for lunch and I snuck out for a smoke break. The ordeal that _Bharata _was putting me through was playing hell with my nerves

I stepped out into the back alley and breathed the chill, sour air with relief. The huge structures on either side meant that little, if any, sun reached the ground. The cool air was a welcome relief from the stifling air in the orchestra pit.

There were about a dozen men lounging about on abandoned packing crates, smoking cigarettes and sipping from flasks, which mysteriously disappeared into inner pockets when their owners saw me. I caught sight of Virgil and Alex and went over to bum another cigarette.

Alex glared disapprovingly as I accepted a light from Virgil, but he still had the half-smoked remains of his own cigarette in his hand, so I wasn't going to listen to any moralizing from him.

"Perhaps you would care to give us a lady's opinion on Rousseau's noble savage?" Virgil said casually.

"Society at large only corrupts those who allow themselves to be corrupted." I said easily, punctuating the statement with a puff of smoke. "Humans aren't necessarily good by nature, nor are they made corrupt by society. _Tabula rasa_."

Virgil seemed extraordinarily surprised by my lucid comment, but he hid it well. For reasons best known to himself, Alex had decided to study Philosophy. He refused to explain his reasons to anyone, probably to keep from giving us more ammunition, since we teased him endlessly about how he was going to become a professional student.

Alex could discuss philosophy for hours on end, and he didn't mind in the least if it was a one-sided conversation. I'd learned a great deal mainly out of self-defense.

"Where did you study philosophy?" Virgil asked.

"Didn't." I replied, mentally reviewing the grammar of my next sentence before I said it. I'd accidentally dropped a "y'all" while talking to Brook, and she'd looked at me as if I were insane. I couldn't be from both India and the South.

"I was educated at home for the most part. The philosophy is entirely Alexi's fault." I smiled at Alex, who rolled his eyes.

"Not everyone has the subtlety of mind for philosophical debate."

"Oh it's subtlety is it? More like…" I abruptly remembered I wasn't supposed to know the next word. I was saved by appearance of a senior technician who emerged from the Opera House and recalled most of the men, including Virgil, back to work. Those few who remained withdrew their flasks again, judging that a girl who smoked wouldn't be offended by the presence of what smelled like cheap gin.

"You're smoking again?" Alex said accusingly.

"It's been a stressful day. And I don't see you going cold turkey. What have you been doing all day anyway?"

"I've had a busy day too." Alex sniffed. "I tried blending in with the stage crew. It worked rather too well. The stage manager saw me poking around and asked what I was doing. I told him I was working, and he assumed I was just hired and put me to work building the set."

Alex sounded rather pleased with himself. I tried not to laugh. You know how, in TV courtrooms, the witness swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Alex is the reason why. He's like a truth ninja. It was very rare to hear him tell an outright lie. He just somehow always managed to make the truth suit him.

"I take it you found nothing of interest?"

"Not a thing. Aside from the usual drama, there's nothing out of the ordinary here. Not even an Opera Ghost."

* * *

"Stop!" Mr. Loman screamed and the orchestra ground to an atonal halt. The lead violin dragged his bow across the strings in protest, making a noise like a hundred nails on a chalkboard. "No, no, no, no, non! It is completely wrong!"

I slouched back on my bench, massaging my hands. I had never in my life played so much at one go, and my forearms were starting to ache. I was grateful for the break, but anger was rising like a cloud of mist from the orchestra pit. Loman seemed unaware of this, as he harangued half the chorus for being off their mark. I caught sight of Brook at one end of the chorus and she gave a small wave when she noticed me.

"This happen often?" I asked the general vicinity. The organization of the pit was such that I was sitting behind the second violins, and one of the guys sitting in the back row turned around to answer me.

"Oh yes." He said sarcastically. "I don't think we've ever managed to have a complete rehearsal before Opening Night. At least not while I've been here."

"Still, everything manages to work itself out in the end." I said, speaking from the experience of three and a half school musicals. (I dropped out midway through "State Fair" because Mum thought it more important that I pass history class. Go figure.)

"Only God knows how." he agreed.

"'I'm Solei, by the way."

"Samuel Trevor. What's your family name?"

"Watson. But it's a secret." I grinned. "Mr. Squires thinks that it'll add to my mystique."

We watched Mr Loman put a contralto through her paces for a moment.

"Isn't it unusual for the owner to be the director as well?" I asked.

"Generally," Sam replied, "but the whole Opera is something by way of Mr. Loman's pet project. He was a director before, with the Other Theatre."

"What happened?"

Sam thought about this for a moment. He looked more like a football captain, all chiseled good looks and a jaunty grin, than a violinist. He also looked about seventeen years old.

"Artistic differences," he said finally, with a wink. "I heard it got so bad that Loman set fire to his libretto and stormed out."

"Artists," I _tsk_ed. Sam seemed to find this hilarious.

"Can I give you some advice?" Sam said conspiratorially. "Steer clear of Marguerite."

"Who?" Sam grinned as if I'd just made a fabulous joke.

"The prima donna. She's the brunette with the red dress. She hates you."

"She does?" I was stunned. Barely twenty four hours and already I had a mortal enemy.

"Oh yes. You're stealing all of her glory. Mr. Squires sent out letters to all the papers, telling them of the arrival of a new beauty who would dazzle audiences with the power of her musical talent."

"He did?" That was quick work.

"I saw the letter myself. Well, my cousin did and he works for the _Times_. He's having posters made up too. By Wednesday you'll be the talk of the town."

So much for a low profile. Alex was going to laugh his head off.

"That's a little much. I mean, I'll be in the pit all night, no one will even see me." Sam shrugged.

"Doesn't matter, as long as it sells tickets. You should have heard her during lunch." Sam said, gossiping with all the glee of a junior high girl. "She confided to one of her friends that she was sure you were just some farmer's daughter. 'She can hardly play at all.'" He said in a mocking falsetto. "'The only reason she got the job is because old Anderson's son is so terrible. I hardly know who to pity more, him or her.'"

Loman had made whatever fiddling adjustments to the staging he felt had been necessary and we continued on through most of the movement. I was torn between anger at the prima donna who I had yet to meet, and amusement that my arrival had caused so much drama in the space of a day.

But it was during this time that the idea that Brook had unknowingly planted in my brain the previous day had just come to fruition. The more melodramatic and overblown my "past" in India became, the more likely everyone else would think it was a front, and I was really a merchant's daughter, who had run away from home. This way, I didn't have to worry about keeping my story straight either. A few inconsistencies would only add to the illusion. Sometimes I'm so brilliant, I surprise even myself.

At dinner I regaled a clutch of the younger ballerinas with stories from India, which I mostly made up on the spot. I did do a pretty good job of remembering the story of _Aladdin _though; that's the original story, not the Disney movie.

I also threw in a few of my own childhood adventures, though I changed the setting from suburbia to the jungle. The mere idea of climbing trees was fascinating to them, and I wondered what kids did for fun around here. Sit quietly and knit?

Most of the principle dancers and lead singers, those with enough money to maintain their own apartment, had left after rehearsals had concluded, leaving the junior members of the cast and some of the workmen. I cast a quick glance over the table where the stage crew was eating, but Alex was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Is it true what Marguerite says?" One of the younger dancers asked.

"I dunno, what does Marguerite say?" I didn't get a response, because Brook cut the girl off with a look.

"Marguerite says many things, but everyone knows it's just gossip." Brook said primly and the dancer looked embarrassed. I sensed there was some history there, but Brook didn't offer an explanation. There were a few moments of awkward silence.

Fortunately it was broken by the entrance the stage manager, trailing a stream of curses. A few of the ballerinas giggled, scandalized.

"The ship is destroyed!" He declared to his crew. "The damn bloody ship that took all week to build! It's in pieces! If I find that one of you bastards is involved, so help me…"

Everyone in the dining room watched the manager's tirade with varying degrees of amusement and embarrassment. I took advantage of the distraction to sneak out.

I headed to my room, lost in that half-aware daze most people occupy while walking down hallways. So when Anderson, he of the terrible audition and my understudy, stepped out in front of me, it took me completely by surprise.

"I don't care who you are Miss Solei." He spat out the words like watermelon seeds. "But the position of pianist is mine, and no jumped-up girl from India is going to take it from me." He declared and stormed off.

Make that two mortal enemies in twenty-four hours.

"It s'all yours mate." I said to myself. "I'm just trying to get home."

* * *

I was a little jumpy after being accosted by Anderson in the hallway, so when I found Alex sprawled out on the bed I had to choke back a scream.

"What's with you?"

"I met my understudy. He's not a happy panda." I related my encounter with Anderson in the hallway. "Somehow, he fails to inspire me with fear."

"Doesn't seem the type to do… anything really." Alex shrugged. "I have an idea on how to get home though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. C'mon."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	6. Tuesday : So Much for Plan B

**_Tuesday: So Much for Plan B_**

"Did it work?"

"Um, it's kinda hard to tell."

A horse drawn carriage rattled past in the misty night. Well, morning, by now.

"I guess not."

We had just finished retracing our steps from Sunday night, in the hopes we might run across…something. A large orange sign with an arrow saying "Time Detour" or "This Way to 20th Century" perhaps.

Alex thought it was a faint hope to begin with, but worth a shot. I thought anything, no matter how stupid it might appear was worth a shot. So we ended up schlepping halfway across London and back at 2 am, looking for a time machine.

"That old woman has something to do with this," Alex said. I didn't disagree, if only because if there was some sort of temporal anomaly on a random London street, there would probably be a fairly steady stream of cross-century traffic. The neighborhood we had been walking through was fairly popular with the college crowd, and someone would have probably noticed the drop in attendance if everyone who walked through it at night disappeared.

"I don't like this," Alex said in disgust. "Things ought to make sense."

"It might have been small, something that we didn't notice. We were worse for drink."

"I wasn't that drunk."

"I might have been," I said regretfully, "but I still remember you having a chugging contest with Kevin."

"You remember me winning a chugging contest," Alex corrected.

There were no loiterers at the back entrance at this early hour so we snuck in undetected, although the dark circles under my eyes drew some knowing glances from people coming down for breakfast. I borrowed some makeup from Brook and drank a lot of coffee in order to face the second act.

I dozed off during lunch, to the extreme amusement of Brook and a few other members of the chorus who were sitting next to me. After another infusion of caffeine, we attempted act two again, this time with the singers and dancers in place, and I perked up a bit to watch the interpersonal dynamics being played out on stage.

Opera, and theatre in general, is the repository of all those intense and dramatic sentiments that are normally bottled up, or at least toned down in everyday life. This is why people love theatre. It speaks to a part of the psyche that doesn't get out for air much. It also has the side effect of magnifying everyday dramas to epic proportions.

Marguerite was making a great show of being in a barely-controlled rage. She took every opportunity to shoot condescending glances at Brook, who remained perfectly oblivious, which seemed to infuriate Marguerite all the more. After the third aborted attempt at the opening song of the second act, Cocteau looked as if he wanted to shove his baton down Loman's throat, while the Corps de Ballet giggled and whispered behind their hands. Think junior high with more singing.

Cocteau gave in at about six o'clock, when some of the orchestra began glancing pointedly at pocket watches.

I followed the chorus backstage, thinking longingly of sleep, when Alex ran into me. Literally. I would have bounced off the opposite wall if Alex hadn't grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Terribly sorry, miss." He said, and tugged the brim of the cap he had mysteriously acquired some time during the day.

"S'all right." I replied automatically and closed my hand around the square of paper he had slipped into my hand.

I picked up a plate of food without really looking at it and sat in a quiet corner to read the note. I had just begun to unfold it when Brook sat down in a huff.

"I don't believe her!" Brook cried as I shoved the note into a pocket.

"What?"

"Marguerite. She accused me of trying to jinx her, can you believe that!" I had a sudden mental image of Brook holding a voodoo doll in a silk dress.

"Jinx her?"

"Oh, somebody put fresh flowers in her dressing room and she's accusing everybody of being jealous of her and trying to give her bad luck."

"Oh." This seemed odd to me, but I let it go. Brook saw my expression though.

"They're terrible luck." She explained patiently. "Hardly anything is worse than fresh flowers in an opera house."

"Of course," I said, shaking my head. The fresh flowers thing was new to me, but theatre people had an amazing number of superstitions. I'd seen one actress run screaming from the dressing room after being tricked into saying 'Macbeth'.

"Marguerite doesn't seem to like you much." I said, stating the obvious.

"I'm a soprano. She dislikes all the sopranos. The managers put up with her because she threatened to go to the Other Theatre. She _was_ the biggest name on the bill."

It seemed less a threat than a bonus to me, until I remembered the "bad blood." Wait, what did she say?

"What do you mean 'was'?"

"I saw the posters going out," Brook grinned. "Your name in letters 5 inches tall."

Oh Lord. I was probably going to have to watch out for poisoned sheet music or something.

"Tell me about this Other Theatre. Are the managers worried about it?" I asked, reaching for a distraction, any distraction.

"They are more established, so they have the advantage there. And their agents are offering a pay raise to anyone willing to sign on with them. Some of the other singers already have. I prefer this troupe though. A new group, a fresh start. It's the sort of place you can really make your mark." She added with an air of proprietary pride.

"The building doesn't seem new, though."

"No, it's been here for decades, but it was empty for a while. The stage crew has had to make an awful lot of repairs."

"Why did Mr Loman start his own theatre?"

"I don't know really. Something about 'artistic differences'." I wanted to ask more, but several of the younger members of the chorus descended at that moment, full of gossip about Marguerite. I murmured an excuse and left the table unnoticed.

I returned to the empty stage and was momentarily caught unaware by the expectant hush which hung over the velvet seats. I was usually in the house when it was full of noise and music. Without the distraction of other people, I felt I was meeting the Opera House for the first time. I was in the presence of a Grand Lady fallen on hard times, powerful and imposing, but oddly benevolent.

I suddenly remembered the note in my pocket and fished it out.

_Meet me in the foyer after dinner._

That was it. No explanation or signature. Of course, the signature was unnecessary, and Alex never gave explanations when he could give cryptic remarks or dramatic proclamations.

I hopped down off the edge of the stage and walked back into the foyer. It was still light outside and the sun streamed in through the high windows, putting a golden shine on everything. Alex was sitting at the base of the wide, sweeping staircase.

"What's up?"

"I wanted to show you something."

"What?"

"Everything."

* * *

Nothing beats exploration for the sheer joy of discovery. It doesn't matter if someone else has already found that shady clearing in the middle of Hyde Park; if it's new to you, then it's a discovery. Alex was the only other person I'd met so far who shared this philosophy.

I never realized how huge the place was. Anyone who's been to the theatre knows about the atrium with people wearing bow ties ready to sell you something and the red velvet curtain in front of rows of chairs. But for square footage, the house only occupies about a third of the actual building. There are rehearsal rooms for the dancers and musicians, storage rooms for sets and instruments, crawl spaces, the fly works for the stagehands to get to the lights, living quarters for the lower echelons of the opera's talent and any number of odd nooks and crannies.

"Brook tells me that this Other Theatre means serious business." I told Alex. "They're dangling juicy contracts in front of the star singers as encouragement to relocate. Hey, this one's unlocked. Oh, never mind. Janitor's closet."

"There's some sort of rivalry between the current owner and the guy who opened the new opera house." Alex said, taking a glance at the closet. It contained few buckets, mops and brooms; the basic of cleaning supplies never really change. "They seem to hate each other with a passion, but people are a bit fuzzy on the details."

"Instead of dueling pistols, they have dueling opera houses?"

"I guess. But the real talk among the stage crew is about a string of sabotages."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Tools gone missing, backdrops vandalized, props broken, that sort of thing. Staircases found."

"What? Oh. Looks like it goes to the roof."

"Let's find out." I waited at the base of a rickety ladder while Alex climbed up to fiddle with the lock on the trapdoor. It had been abandoned for a while. A thick layer of dust coated the steps and there were enough cobwebs for a haunted mansion. The air was musty, like an unaired basement.

"I guess the flowers count as sabotage too, then." I called up the stairs. There was a dull crack as the lock gave way. Dust filtered down and I sneezed

"What, like Venus Flytraps?" Alex said, looking down through the square of the trapdoor.

"No," I explained as I climbed up, "Marguerite, she's the lead soprano; someone sent her a bouquet of fresh flowers. Apparently this is bad luck."

"Interesting."

"What's that? Oh, check out the view." The edges of the roof were heavily decorated with carved friezes and statues of Muses in dramatic poses, but from this angle I could see that the sculptor had gotten lazy, and though the fine detail visible from the street, the backs of the Muses were only roughly carved. The night was clear, but there were no stars visible through the ever-present haze of pollution. But there was a nice crescent moon rising low over the lights of the city.

We leaned against the parapet, peering over the edge at the traffic on the street forty feet below. Carriages, actual horse-drawn carriages, clip-clopped past a man lighting the gaslamps, filling the streets with an orange-ish glow. And then there was the smell. The City in the summer was never at her best, but between the horses, the lamps, and the River, the smell could best be described as 'fried swamp.'

"What's interesting?" I asked again, several minutes later.

"Oh, nothing." Alex shrugged.

"Oh, no. I know that look. You're going to pull a Hardy Boys and start investigating."

"Hardy boys?"

"Never mind. Just leave it alone. I'm sure stuff always gets misplaced around here and little intrigues are always going on backstage. We have bigger fish to fry than the Mystery of the Cranky Soprano." After a few moments passed with no response I turned around to find I was alone on the roof.

I found Alex rattling the handles of the luxury boxes.

"Fancy meeting you here." I said. Alex rolled his eyes, and motioned for me to step closer. I did so and he whispered.

"I thought I saw someone." A chill ran down my spine before logic could reassert itself. The rest of the cast and crew were either at home or sneaking out for a night on the town.

"Paranoid much?"

"Doesn't mean I'm not right. All of these doors are locked."

"Wait here." I ordered and went back to the janitor's closet we had discovered.

Back in high school I had befriended one of the custodians and learned many interesting things about the building, such as the narrow hallway which connected the three chemistry rooms. I had also learned that in most large buildings, especially where security isn't at a premium, most doors can be opened by the same key.

The janitor's key ring hung on a nail beside the door. There were about twenty keys on it, all helpfully labeled. The one I was looking for was marked "lux box." I returned to find Alex looking from his Swiss Army knife to the door thoughtfully.

"That'll be real subtle." I said. Alex shrugged and replaced the knife in his pocket.

"A little paint and nobody would notice." He said.

"Let me give it a try first. Eenie, meenie, miney, that one!" I picked a box at random and tried the key. The door of Box Eight swung opened easily.

"Nice."

"Just one of my many skills."

"It was talking about the box."

"Oh, thank you." It was a luxury box, which apparently meant velvet drapes, gilt paint and monstrously ugly chairs.

"The possibilities are endless." Alex said, mostly to himself. I kicked back in one of the chairs, which proved to be quite comfortable despite the hideous design.

"What?"

"I was just thinking of all the possibilities for sabotage. Look at all the places we've broken into, and we're not even trying."

"I don't think it's breaking in when you have the key." I pointed out.

"Still, if someone was trying to really destroy this place, it wouldn't be very hard to do."

"So I guess that just makes him incompetent." I tried out one of the chairs. It was surprisingly comfy, the velvet just beginning to show some wear.

"And then there's the people," Alex said. I gave him a look. "They're a bit… odd."

I was about to say something like, they're theatre people, how can you tell? But he was right. It was hard to put your finger on, but people of the Opera company were an odd bunch. A combination of wash-ups, like the ancient cellist, up-and-comers looking for their big break like Brook and Sam, and a single star soprano who was being paid piles of money to keep her away from the Other Company.

"I wonder…" Alex stopped suddenly. We both heard it at the same time; the faintest of sounds out in the hallway, such as might be made by someone shifting their weight on the floorboards. Alex sprang for the door of the box. I followed and stuck my head out of the door. The corridor was empty.

"You think someone was listening?"

"Maybe." Alex replied. The same chill went down my spine, only worse because I'd heard it this time too.

"Nobody is supposed to be up here." I said, ignoring our own presence for the moment.

"Yeah. Time to go."

We split up in the foyer on the grounds that a mystery stalker couldn't follow us both. Alex headed up a back staircase and I went back through the empty house. As I went through the deserted backstage, a snatch of music caught my attention.

It sounded like someone trying to play "Chopsticks" with a pair of ping pong rackets. I followed the noise into the practice rooms, where Mr. Anderson was attempting to play. After listening for a minute, I retrieved a metronome from the storage room and returned. Anderson was staring despondently at the sheet music.

"Can I give you some advice?"

"I don't need any advice from you."

"Who's the understudy here?" He flushed furiously, but ignored me. He began playing from the chorus. The first twenty measures were decent, but then he began to lose track of the tempo.

"Here." I set the metronome next to the sheet music.

"Metronomes are for beginners."

"That's all well and good for you to say, but the fact is you can't find the tempo with both hands and a map." I gestured at the music, rather pleased with the metaphor.

"I'll look like an amateur." He said sullenly.

"But at least you won't sound like one." I set the metronome and walked out. A few moments later the music started again, this time mercifully on tempo. It wouldn't fool an experienced listener, but it was a start.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	7. Wednesday : The Plot Thickens

**_Wednesday: The Plot Thickens_**

I woke up the next morning, tripped over Alex sleeping on the floor (he lost rock-paper-scissors again), stumbled downstairs for coffee and was arranging my music on the stand before I realized what I was doing. It had only been three days and already I had settled into a sort of routine. The realization was shocking, and I would have dearly loved to tell Alex about it, but the second act started up and I had to concentrate on the music.

During rehearsal I made an effort to keep track of events that were happening around me. Aside from the orchestra's rehearsal, the Corps de Ballet was practicing on stage and the stage crew was crawling around in the flies. During a passage where I had nothing to do, I looked up and saw about half the stage crew balanced in the flies and the scaffolding, trying hard not to be noticed. Alex and Virgil were perched next to one of the large stage lights, in holding a discussion which included quite a lot of wild gesticulation. Alex was probably on about Nietzsche again.

Rehearsals came to a screeching halt when the stage manager wandered into the house, and found most of his crew slacking off. He let out a bellow like an enraged bull and leveled one of the most incredibly inventive streams of obscenity I ever heard in my life at the general direction of the ceiling. The stagehands scrambled to look as if they had just been taking a quick breather. Some jumped out of the flies with incredible dexterity and others quickly began fiddling with the first piece of equipment they could put their hands on.

The dancers giggled, scandalized and loving it, while the ballet master turned first red, then white with rage. Dr. Cocteau shouted at the stage manager, berating him for interrupting practice and probably using just as many obscenities to do it, although it was hard to tell because most of it was in French. Sam the violinist leaned over the back of his chair.

"Better than real opera, in'it?" He grinned.

" 'Tis." I agreed, wishing I could take notes. The stage manager was using words I never even heard of before.

The row was interrupted by a glass-shattering scream from stage left. Everyone fell silent as the echo bounced off the gilded walls and faded away. There was a shocked moment in which everyone looked at their neighbor, then scrambled for the wings. I was hampered by the skirt and reached the wings just in time to see two of the stagehands pick one of their coworkers up off the floor. Blood stained the back of his collar and there was a small pool on the floor.

A few of the ballerinas fainted at the sight, every one falling into the arms of a conveniently nearby male. I began to push my way through the milling crowd, before realizing that medical knowledge in my feminine hands would be considered unusual. The victim was awake and cursing, so he probably wasn't in any immediate danger.

A runner was sent for the doctor, and the ballerinas were herded away by their formidable dance master. Dr. Cocteau knew hopeless battle when he saw one, and dismissed the orchestra for lunch. The crowd began to break up as they realized the man wasn't badly hurt. The stage manager offered him a flask, and I winced as the man knocked back a good portion of it. For future reference, alcohol and head wounds rarely go well together.

"What 'appened Billy?" The manager asked. Alex appeared at my shoulder, having just managed to get down from his position in the flies.

"If someone says 'It was the Opera Ghost!' I swear I'm gonna scream." I murmured to him. He sniggered softly.

"I was just standing there-" Billy began hotly, then realized who he was talking to and edited his story. "I was just– checking on things backstage. And all of a sudden, bang! Somebody hits me over the head! Weren't doing nothing, either."

"I bet you weren't doing nothing." The manager growled. "How's a man supposed to do his job with strangers sabotaging his sets and knocking his crew unconscious?"

"Did you see who did it?" Virgil asked. Not many people had hung around to listen to Billy's story when they could be taking a long lunch. Besides me and Virgil, there was Alex, Sam the violinist and three of the stagehands.

"Nah. He hit me from behind. And why I'd like to know! S'not like I was doing nothin'." Billy subsided into angry mutterings. Alex caught my eye and nodded toward one of the many tool benches stored backstage. On top of the pile of abandoned tools and props was a wooden sword, dripping gently on the floor.

Alex casually sidled over for a closer look. Everyone else seemed more interested in Billy and the manager's duel of wits. I stepped back quietly as the doctor arrived, sparking a fresh wave of complaints from Billy.

"Blood?" I whispered to Alex.

"Looks like."

I glanced around. There didn't appear to be anything missing. The only access to the wings was from the stage or from the flies. The whole area was a web of ropes, securing the upper lights and sandbags. I ran my hand along one of the ropes securing the counterweight for the massive velvet curtains. There was a flaw in the fibers, just above where the rope was secured to the hitch.

"Check this out." I whispered over my shoulder.

"What?" Virgil answered. "Sorry." He added when I jumped and said a word a lady of the era shouldn't have known.

"The rope." I said weakly. "It's wearing through." Both Alex and Virgil peered over my shoulder. In the dim light backstage it was just possible to see a gash in the rope.

"It's not wear. That's a knife cut." Alex said.

"Are you sure?" Virgil asked.

"If it was just wear, it would be all the way around the rope. Look, the cut goes halfway through, then stops." As one, we glanced over at Billy and the newly arrived doctor who was bandaging his head wound.

"I'll find Mr. Barns and get this rope replaced." Virgil said with finality. "You two get some lunch."

* * *

Six hours, one lunch, one afternoon rehearsal, and one hissy fit on the part of Marguerite later, Alex and I met in Box Eight.

"We replaced the cut rope and checked all the other ones." Alex said, shaking a sizeable amount of dust out of his dark hair. "Since I'm the new guy, I got the honor of crawling across the ceiling to check the ropes and chains holding up the stage lights."

"Sabotage again?"

"Definitely. Billy must have walked in on someone cutting the ropes. The saboteur panicked and grabbed the first thing that came to hand."

"He's lucky it wasn't a hammer then." I sighed. "Billy said he didn't see anyone. If the saboteur had just stayed still, nobody would have noticed the rope."

"Uh, it's kinda a good thing that we noticed the rope."

"_I_ noticed the rope."

"Oh pardon me."

"Credit where it's due," I teased. "Do you think that he meant to cut all the way through, or leave it and let the tension on the rope to the rest of the job? If that rope had snapped during a performance the curtains would have collapsed onto the stage. Bit of a show stopper."

"I would say the second one. Apparently Baron LaValle doesn't take kindly to competition."

"Right. Who?"

"Baron LaValle. One of the guys who's backing the Theatre Royal." Alex explained. "It's pretty common knowledge backstage that the Baron will stop at nothing to come out on top in this little war of the opera houses. Insults in the music columns, bribes to the more famous singers and musicians, minor sabotage. No secret really."

"Why don't they take it to the cops?" I asked. Alex gave me a look.

"And what are the cops going to do about it?"

"Ah ha. It's like that, is it?"

"Give a guy a title and he's damn near bulletproof." Alex nodded.

I stared out across the empty house. My operatic début was coming up, and the closer it got, the more worried I was. I had never played in front of a crowd bigger than a few hundred people, but the Opera easily sat a thousand. When I was offered the position, I took it mainly because I had nothing better to do. A job at the Opera was a lot better than wandering about the streets. I never thought I would actually have to follow through.

And of course it couldn't be as simple as all that. Never was when Alex was around.

"This always seems to happen to us." I said morosely. Alex stared, puzzled. "Crime." I elaborated. "Seems like you can't go for more than a month without somehow attracting a felony."

"Well, I don't do it on purpose." he said defensively.

"I know. But it's weird. Like the universe knows you'll solve the mystery and so it arranges things so that you can get involved."

"I don't believe in fate," Alex said firmly.

"Belief is not necessary if fate believes in you."

There was a moment of silence that, in a movie, would have to be filled with chirping crickets.

"You've been saving that one up for awhile, haven't you?"

"Yeah."

"Nice."

"Thanks."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	8. Thursday : Down to the Pub

**_Thursday: Down to the Pub_**

London was caught in a blistering heat wave. Or so the locals said. I, on the other hand, had spent a couple of summers in Phoenix, Arizona; where you really could fry an egg on the sidewalk. It wasn't so much the heat as the humidity, which hovered around 100%, like a thick wool blanket drenched in hot water. The dark and cavernous spaces of the Opera House afforded some protection against the heat, but there were still a greater number of people than usual lounging about in the back alley.

Alex had tracked down a tobacco shop and was now having fun rolling his own cigarettes. We had come to the understanding that we would quit just as soon as we got back home. Virgil seemed happy that we had stopped stealing his. For some reason he was the only member of the stage crew that didn't try and avoid us. I think I shocked them. And I think Alex annoyed them. He tended to do that while in philosophy-mode.

Today's lecture was on Plato's Republic, specifically the allegory of the cave. I'd heard it a million times already, so I eavesdropped on the conversation of a group of scene shifters. I didn't know anyone's name, so I had mentally assigned them names based on physical appearance.

"If it goes on at this rate, they'll have to close the Opera." Said the youngest one, now dubbed Junior.

"Shows what you know boy." Blond said. "The Opera always goes on. The roof could fall in on the orchestra and the singers would keep on singing."

"That's bloody stupid." Junior said.

"Course it is. 'The show must go on' and all that nonsense." Scruffy Beard said. "Why, I remember when they played _Aida_ back in '78. The lead bass had a heart attack in the middle of the second act. He finished out the act and keeled over in the wings. The conductor had to go out and ask if there was a doctor in the house. Then he asked if there was anyone who could sing bass in the house." There was a brief silence as his audience digested this information.

"Was there?" Junior asked. "A bass in the audience, I mean."

"Yep. A visiting music professor I think. He finished the third act to a standing ovation."

"What about the bass?" I had to ask. Scruffy Beard looked at me, surprised, not that I had spoken, but at the question itself. "Did he live?"

"Yeah, I think so." He said. Clearly that wasn't the important bit.

"Anyway," Blond said. "If we give in now and delay the première, those bastards in the Other Theatre will have won." There was a murmur of agreement.

"Did Mr. Loman sponsor a new opera company?" I asked. "Seems pretty daft seeing as how there was already one established."

"Ach now. There's a question." This came from the oldest man on the stage crew, who I thought of as Eldest. I had seen him around several times, usually supervising the work of younger men with a cigarette stuck behind his ear.

"Bad blood between Mr. Loman and Baron LaValle." He said with quiet Scottish deliberation. "I hear tell there was a woman involved. They both loved her, but she would have nothing ta do with either of them, and each blamed the other. She married another man, but Mr. Loman and the Baron have hated each other ever since. They oppose each other in everything. The quarrel has existed so long that it needs no reason anymore." Eldest replaced the cigarette in his mouth firmly.

"Huh. Women." Junior said.

"Pfft. Men." I replied in the same tones. Junior blushed and the other men chuckled at his discomfort.

A sudden change came over the group, like ripples in the wake of a ship. The men straightened up and attempted to discreetly hide their flasks and cigarettes. I looked around and saw Brook standing nervously on the threshold, surveying the cigarette-strewn alleyway. I quickly crushed out mine and stood up. Brook caught sight of me and looked enormously relived that she wasn't going to have to venture out into the alley.

"Mrs. Jhavari is here." She said, as I followed her inside.

"The saris are ready?" I asked, sounding like a sophomore at the mall and not caring.

* * *

"The saris are ready."

I am what you might call a tomboy. Always have been. When I was eight my mom forced me into ballet lessons. She lasted a month before finally caving into my whining and letting me take drum lesson instead. To me ballet was the epitome of wussy girlyness. I didn't want to look graceful or charming or wear little pink dresses with frills on them. I wanted to go skateboarding with the boys next door and come home covered in dirt with a scraped knee.

This was a point of eternal dispute between me and Mom, who was always buying me fancy clothes that I refused to wear as a matter of principle. Only recently, under the influence of my best friend Lei, had I begun to discover the positive side of the fancy dress and sparkly jewelry.

I had wanted a sari ever since I saw a pair of women in London strolling down the street in their saris. It was one of the few times I had ever regretted being a perennially broke college student. When it came down to the choice between a sari and eating for the next month or two, the decision was difficult but inevitable.

Mrs. Jhavari was waiting for us in the dressing room shared by the Corps de Ballet. It was currently empty with all the ballerinas onstage.

A sari is basically a brief blouse, petticoat and about six yards of silk. It looks simple, but like many things that look simple, it's incredibly complicated. One wrong fold and the whole thing can come undone. The skirt is can be folded hundreds of different ways depending on social status, region and what you're going to be doing.

I tried on the purple one first. The blouse was purple, with silver embroidery along the hem of the sleeves. The skirt was the same indigo color, with embroidery along both edges. It took the help of both Mrs. Jhavari and Brook to wrap me in the skirt properly. The skirt fabric was passed around my waist a few times, and the edges tucked into the hem of the petticoat. The rest of the fabric was draped across my front from hip to shoulder. I was going to have to pin the folds together until I got the hang of moving in the sari.

"There. Go. Look." Mrs. Jhavari shooed me in front of the mirror.

"Wow." Brook said.

"Yeah." I twisted around, trying to judge how it looked from the back. Pretty damn good, actually. Despite my blond hair and white skin I looked like I had just descended from the back of an elephant. All I needed was a bindi (those little forehead dots) to complete the picture. Mrs. Jhavari looked terribly pleased with herself.

"You must wear jewelry too." She said. "What is a tree without her blossoms?" The three of us ransacked the costume room for brass and glass ornaments. One of the trunks left over from a production of _Aida_ proved to be a proverbial goldmine. At a sufficient distance and with the right lighting, brass could become gold, and rhinestones were diamonds.

"You look beautiful." Brook said, with a touch of envy.

"Yeah." I said, a bit dazed. I'd never worn so much jewelry in my life. I had a necklace, bangles, earrings, an ornamented hair comb and even a set of ankle bells. Then practicality took hold.

"I won't be able to wear the bangles or the anklets." I said, removing them. "They'll just get in the way of my playing."

I tried on the other sari, and Mrs. Jhavari and Brook gleefully sorted through the jewelry to find pieces that would match it. It was a shimmering scarlet, with gold embroidery along the hems. They were having a lot of fun using me as a giant dress-up doll. Mrs. Jhavari wrapped this one differently, so that instead of the end of the skirt draped across my front, the fabric hung over my shoulder from back to front, covering my back but leaving my stomach uncovered.

It was really rather modest, Alex's later sniggering about 'Bollywood item number' notwithstanding. The _choli_ covered most of my stomach, and the drape of the sari covered the rest. It was more the suggestion of immodesty and the exotic outlandishness of a white girl in Indian clothes. I estimated only about 30% chance of riots.

It was decided that I should braid my hair back, instead of the more traditional bun. Over the past few months my hair had been dyed from its natural light brown to black, blond, black again, black with acid green streaks and back to blond again. Needless to say, it was a little fried and didn't take kindly to attempts to tame it. It had gotten better recently, but still resisted all attempts to tie it up.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Jhavari."

"No thanks necessary my child. It is good to find one who appreciates the beauty of the sari."

"I can't wait to see how the others will react. Probably shocked to see real curves." I said, forgetting to editorialize my comments for the time period. Brook giggled, but Mrs. Jhavari roared with laughter.

"Good!" She said something in Hindi. It sounded like a quote of something. "You will show these English sahibs what it means to be a woman."

I grinned, thinking what Alex would have to say about that. I took a final look at the scarlet and gold splendor in the mirror.

"I'll wear this one down to lunch."

* * *

I think I blew some Victorian minds. I certainly turned heads. The ballerinas and some of the younger singers stared in open envy, while the older singers stuck their noses in the air and pretended to ignore me. At least the older female singers did. The males stared in shock, some of them literally slack-jawed like in those old school cartoons. Alex, who had seen pictures of my prom dress, grinned at the commotion I was causing. If the reaction of the staff was any indication, my operatic début would certainly cause a ruckus.

Afternoon rehearsals went smoothly for once. The cast and crew adjusted quickly to my new wardrobe, although I caught a few glances in my direction. This was, after all, the Theatre. Radical fashions and behavior were the norm rather than the exception.

We quit work for the day and I went looking for Alex. We had agreed to meet up and do some more exploring of the Opera House. Most of the sabotage had been uncovered in the morning, so Alex had an idea about this saboteur hiding somewhere in the Opera House and doing his dirty work during the night. Last time I saw him he was moving backdrops in and out of storage, so I wandered backstage.

I moved carefully, watching where I stepped. I had stopped wearing shoes because the ones I'd borrowed from Brook were on the small side and the flip-flops I was wearing on arrival kept catching on the hems of the sari. I hardly ever left the Opera, so shoes were really more of an option anyway. But backstage I had to watch out for stray nails and splinters and other nasty surprises. That's why I noticed the foot sticking out from a pile of drop cloths.

A horrible chill ran down my spine. I looked around quickly; there was no one in sight. I reached down and tugged to the boot. It was attached to a foot. The foot was (thankfully) attached to a man, who was buried under the drop cloths. I pulled the heavy canvas off him and checked for a pulse. I breathed a sigh of relief when I found it, slow but steady. He looked vaguely familiar, but all the stagehands did.

"Uh. Help?" I said. I was reluctant to leave an injured man alone, but if I just stood there and screamed, it was unlikely anyone would hear me. I debated this for a moment, but my problem was solved when I heard footsteps of several people making their way across the stage.

"Help!" I called, louder this time. The footsteps paused, then ran backstage. They belonged to three members of the stage crew, one of whom happened to be Virgil. They took one look at the injured man and gasped.

"They've gotten to the boss!" I looked closer at the man and realized that he was the stage manager. A runner was again dispatched to the doctor and a crowd began to gather as the news spread through the ranks of the Opera.

"Did you see what happened?" Virgil asked. I shook my head.

"I was looking for Alex and I tripped over him."

"You're sure?"

"You didn't see anyone enter or leave?"

"No." I frowned. This sounded suspiciously like an interrogation. "It's quitting time. Everyone is wandering all over the place."

"Hmm." Virgil said. He glanced at Mr. Barnes, the stage manager, who was just beginning to come around, then at the ceiling, then back at me. "The saboteur strikes again." He said, mainly to himself and wandered off. I watched him go, terribly confused.

"Hey Solei!" I turned to see Sam waving at me. The doctor was ordering everyone out and two of the stagehands were loading their boss onto a stretcher.

"We're headed over to the Bow and Staff for a pint. Care to join us?" I wavered for a moment. Alex would be wondering where I'd gone to and alcohol usually went straight to my head, but on the other hand, between the assaults, the time travel and opening night looming on the horizon, my nerves were nearing their breaking point.

"I'd love to. Just let me grab my shoes."

* * *

The Bow and Staff was a block away from the Opera House, tucked between a café and a bookstore. It was one of those establishments with a very good reputation in the right circles, so that it's only advertising was a modest wooden sign hung above the door. In this case, the select clientele was the cast and crew of the Opera, as witnessed by the sign. The curlicue letters wove about a fiddler's bow and a G-Staff.

Pints were ordered all around, though I made mine a half. Sam insisted on paying, and I let him, mainly because I'd just spent several paychecks on the sari I was currently wearing, but also because I didn't have any money that would be considered legal tender in this time period.

Most of the orchestra was there tonight, along with a few odd members of the chorus and the stage crew. The main topic of conversation was the attack on the stage manager and general grumblings that this time, the Other Theatre had gone too far. As a central figure in the latest assault I found myself reciting the story of my discovery several times and my glass refilled itself a couple of times without my noticing.

At closing time I was leaned up against the bar, discussing the perils of being a female musician in a male world with the harpist, the lone other female in the orchestra. I had gathered that girls in the orchestra were one of many things that were Not Done around here, which seemed strange, since once you including the ballerinas the male to female ratio of the cast of the Opera was about even. But it seemed that the rules had been quietly rewritten so as not to apply to us.

"Cause the thing is… the thing is…" She was trying to say. I was pretty sure her name was Maria, but I'd just been introduced to her that night and the alcohol was starting to dissolve my short-term memory.

"The thing is men are …condescending." Maria managed. "Like you're a child playing at being a real musician."

"And they always think they're better than you." I said, mainly to the bar. "As if musical talent was contained solely within the Y chromosome."

"What?" Maria asked. That sentence contained a lot of syllables, and by the time I got to the end of it, I'd forgotten the first part.

"Men are jerks."

"Yeah."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	9. Friday : Morning After Memories

**_Friday: Morning After Memories_**

I woke up with the bed sheets tangled in a knot around me. I fought with them for a minute before I realized that they weren't sheets but the folds of my sari. I lay back in bed and waited for the memories of last night to catch up with me. At least the hangover was minimal.

Sometimes I think that I am proof operant conditioning doesn't work. Normally a creature, when confronted with a behavior that inevitably results in discomfort will try and avoid that behavior. I, on the other hand, order another round.

Let's see. Went to the pub, talked to people, drank about two pints, stumbled back to the Opera House with Maria and Sam and … holy guacamole.

* * *

Sam left us at the backstage door of the Opera and went along to his home in the City. Maria and I stumbled through the backstage, tripping over ourselves and giggling like potheads on helium. Maria's room was on the other side of the Opera House from mine so we parted ways backstage.

I got halfway up the stairs before I had to sit down and wait for the room to stop spinning. The stairway was open to the air, so I could see most of the cavernous area behind the backdrops. A couple of skylights let the moonlight in, supplementing the bare light bulb of the ghost light onstage, turning the stage and its canvas-covered props into a weird landscape of twisted rock formations. As I sat there, I became aware of a person moving around on the lower level.

I sobered up a bit and tried to think straight. Why would there be somebody sneaking around backstage at this time of night? Assuming it wasn't someone else trying to sneak in after a night on the town. The figure appeared to be examining the pulley system which kept the stage lights suspended in the air. He turned slightly, and in the dim light of the moon I recognized him.

The sober part of me realized now would be an excellent time to continue up the stairs and find Alex. The drunk part of me grabbed a hold of the controls and blurted out, "Virgil?"

Virgil jumped and dropped something. There was a sharp, ominous crack, like glass hitting the floor but not breaking.

"Who's there?" He peered around in the dim light. The shadows were dark enough that it was hard to see me if I didn't move. "Miss Solei?"

"Yeah." I replied, after a momentary struggle where my sober mind tried to wrest control away from my drunk mind and failed utterly. Virgil followed the sound of my voice and spotted me on the stairs.

"What are you doing there?"

"What are _you_ doing there?"

"I was just checking to see if everything was well. I wanted to be sure the moorings were secure. What are you doing here?"

"I'm drunk." I said simply. "Perfectly within my rights to be drunk on the stairs in the middle of the night. At least it ought to be."

"Solei? What the hell?"

I twisted around and fell off the step I was sitting on down to a lower one. Alex was standing at the top of the stairs.

"What's going on?" Alex demanded.

"I'm checking the moorings of the lights." Virgil said. "After what happened to the boss, I wanted to make sure there wasn't any sabotage, like what happened when Billy was attacked."

"It's one in the morning." Alex said. Virgil shrugged as if it were a perfectly normal hour to do maintenance in.

"And what are you doing here so late?" Virgil asked.

"I'm making sure Miss Solei gets home okay." He said instantly. I giggled. The phrase 'Miss Solei' out of Alex's mouth sounded hilarious.

"I'm finished here." Virgil said.

"Right then."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

Virgil strolled away toward the back door. Alex watched him until he was out of sight, then came down the stairs and sat next to me.

"Where the hell have you been? We were going to check for places the saboteur could be hiding."

"Aw, you missed me."

"I didn't know where you went. I was worried." Alex halted abruptly, as if he'd said more than he meant to.

"You were worried?"

"Yeah. All we got is each other now. We've got to stick together." Something about his tone burned off some of the haze of alcohol. I laid my head against his shoulder and we sat together in companionable silence.

"Don't worry mate. I'm not going anywhere." I said after awhile. It might have been a couple minutes or a couple hours. It was one of those kinds of moments.

"Good. Now come upstairs before someone else comes along and we have to explain this."

Alex half-carried me up the stairs and down the hall. This wasn't strictly necessary, since I was nowhere near that drunk, but I raised no protest. When we reached the room, I found that while I was at the pub, Alex had gotten sick of sleeping on the floor and had moved a cot from one of the empty rooms into our room. Unfortunately even pushed together, the two small cots took up nearly every inch of available space.

"Tired of sleeping on the floor?" I asked.

"Well, I didn't think that we'd both fit in that bed." He replied, sexual innuendo being the automatic response of nearly every college student on the planet. "It's supposed to be good for your back anyway."

"Lotsa stuff is supposed to be good for you. Doesn't mean I'd wanna do it."

"I've noticed. Fine example you're setting for your patients, smoking and drinking and staying out till all hours of the night."

"Fine talk from you; you're always there with me. 'Sides, I'm not a doctor yet."

"You just order everyone around like you are."

"S'right. But I'd do that anyway."

"Solei?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't ever change."

I still don't know how it happened. We were hanging around, talking, a night just like dozens of other nights we'd spent in the same room. Okay, maybe not exactly like. I could hear myself talking, but I wasn't really paying attention. Something sparked between us, too intangible to be nailed down with words.

Alex leaned forward slightly. I leaned forward slightly. Then, suddenly the short distance between us closed. There should have been a violin crescendo and fireworks exploding in the background, to match the fireworks exploding inside my mind.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	10. Friday : The Obligatory Nod to Phantom

**_Friday: The Obligatory Nod to Phantom_**

"Holy guacamole." I repeated to the ceiling.

"What?" Alex asked blearily in my ear. There was a brief pause as the events of last night caught up with him as well. "Oh. Did we…"

"Kiss?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, but maybe we should…not. Right now," he said, trying to extract himself from the bed with dignity. There is no possible way to do this when you have two beds taking up the entire room.

"Yeah." I said, trying not to sound too relieved. I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened between us, but a romance was the last thing I needed at the moment. Maybe.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"More like lunch."

"Brunch then."

"Brunch?" Alex asked. I remembered that they called it elevenses around here.

"It's not quite breakfast; it's not quite lunch, but it comes with a slice of cantaloupe at the end."

* * *

Over food the awkwardness disappeared. It wasn't even the first time Alex and I had woken up curled up together. Lorelei had arranged a bed-sharing rota for when the band was on tour, and there was that one time we had managed to fit eight people in two hotel beds.

It was, however, the first time that sort of frisson had passed between us. But between the familiar stress of preparing for a gig, and the unfamiliar stress of suddenly finding ourselves in another century, we were both becoming increasing dependent on each other. Not a happy situation for two ordinarily fiercely independent people, and not the best basis for a relationship. Maybe if we got back…

I pushed away the thought. Either we would get back, or we wouldn't. Right now, I had to focus on the job at hand.

There were no scheduled rehearsals today, partially because the usual rest days of Saturday and Sunday were given over to performances and partially in the hope that no more disasters would occur in the interval. This meant the canteen backstage was nearly empty, and the quality of the food had taken a serious upswing. In cafeteria kitchens, quality and quantity are always inversely related. It also meant that we could discuss our new-found case.

I was wearing the indigo sari today. Last night's adventures didn't seem to have caused the scarlet sari any harm, but I didn't want to take the risk of damaging it. I was going to have to contact Mrs. Jhavari again about getting a couple more saris in cotton or linen for everyday wear. I needed a night dress as well. Right now I was sleeping in the shirt and sarong I had arrived in, but that was not going to work for much longer. A laundry would be useful…

That thought stopped me cold. I didn't dare think about acquiring a real wardrobe, or making living arrangements. If I started thinking like that, we might actually be stuck here. I had to believe that we would find a way out, somehow.

"So," I said, trying to distract myself. "I suppose it could be Mr. Loman or Squires." I said. "Sabotaging their own Opera and blaming it on LaValle would probably be a boost for our ticket sales."

"I don't think so." Alex said, breaking a piece of toast into tiny crumbs. "Neither of them would want to admit that LaValle outmaneuvered him. It must be someone on the stage crew. They're the only ones who have unquestioned access to the entire Opera House."

"And they're they only ones who have been attacked." I said. "So maybe they would recognize their attacker." Alex shrugged.

"Billy got hit from behind, as did Barnes. The attacker was just trying to prevent them from raising the alarm."

"Why would they raise an alarm, if they had their backs to the attacker? He could just act innocent or even pretend that he had seen a mysterious figure just run off. What a dimwit."

I know it sounds strange, but there's nothing I hate more than a stupid criminal. The ones who just keep digging themselves in deeper because the only solution they can think of ends with a bullet. At least the smart criminals intend to kill you, neatly and efficiently. Somehow it feels more right.

"How is your boss anyway?"

"The doctor says it a severe concussion and he needs bed rest for several days." Alex grinned suddenly. "He also said that if people were going to keep getting bashed over the head, could we please do it in the morning when he isn't busy. What about what's-his-face? Anderson. Your understudy?" Alex asked.

"Mamma's boy." I said dismissively. "He's too spoiled to realize how bad he is. He wouldn't go in for sabotage; he'd send in momma with her checkbook."

"Ouch." Alex grinned.

"I calls it like I sees it. What about Virgil?" I asked. "He seems nice enough, but he's always sneaking around. What do you think he was really doing last night?"

"Nothing apparently. I went back downstairs for a look around after, uh, we woke up." Alex coughed and stared furiously at his plate. "There wasn't any damage I could see. He might have been telling the truth." Alex added doubtfully.

"Yeah, right."

"I also went exploring last night, while you were out with the band."

"Anything interesting?"

"I found another access hatch to the roof, but nothing else. Unless there are any secret passages I haven't found out about yet, the saboteur isn't hiding out in the Opera House."

"If you were a saboteur trying to prevent the premiere, what would you do?" Alex asked.

I stared into my coffee as I thought. It wasn't too bad, but I have never yet gotten a really good cup of coffee in England. I think it was a sort of cultural revenge for that whole Tea Party business.

"I'd wait until the night of the performance, and then lace lunch with a tranquillizer." Alex whistled softly.

"That's devious." He said, and meant as a compliment.

"What would you do?"

"I'd wait until the night before, when everyone was gone and the house was empty, then I'd drop the chandelier on the floor."

"Very _Phantom of the Opera_." I said.

"Very effective. You couldn't clear a mess like that away in one day. But we're not thinking about this the right way. Up until now, the saboteur has stuck to petty theft and minor damage. Besides the attacks, the worst thing he's done is attempting to bring down the curtain."

"Okay." I said, thinking out loud. "Assuming my goal is to stop the performance, I'm running out of time. I need to do something big this time. I'm probably on stage crew, so I'll do something involving the technical aspects of opera. Destroy the backdrops? I found the stage manager back where the backdrops are stored. He may have walked in on the attacker."

"No. I spent all day moving those damn things around. The canvas is too heavy to cut apart, and it wouldn't burn easily. Besides, backdrops are interchangeable. He'd have to destroy them all."

"Cut the lights? No lights, no opera."

"He might be able to cut the electricity, but they still have the old gas lamps."

"He could set the place on fire."

"He could try. There are sand and water buckets everywhere, left over from the days when the place was lit with open flame. Besides, he seems to have stayed away from sabotage that could kill people."

"Except for hitting everyone over the head," I muttered. That was one of the many things that annoyed me about Hollywood movies. A concussion isn't an on-off switch. Humans can take a lot of damage, but the brain is kind of sensitive. Even a minor blow can kill, if it lands in the right (or wrong) spot.

"What about destroying instruments or costumes?" Alex asked.

"Pretty much everyone takes their instrument home with them, and there are a few spares in the practice room. And you'd be amazed how quick Mrs. Jhavari is with a needle. What about sending threats to the actors?"

"They'd probably dismiss it as professional jealousy. And there's always an understudy."

"Well, I'm out of ideas." I shrugged. "It would take an awful lot to derail the Opera, especially after all this."

"Solei!" Brook cried, her voice shattering the quiet of the empty canteen. "There you are. I was wondering where you disappeared to last night." She sat down next to me, with a curious glance at Alex the stagehand.

"I went out to the pub with some of the guys in the orchestra." I said.

"Oh." She said, a bit shocked that I would do anything so unladylike as pub crawling. Though it probably didn't count as pub crawling when you stayed in the same pub all night. "Well, I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing today?"

_Trying to track down a saboteur_, I thought.

"Nothing I suppose." I said.

"Wonderful! You must play accompanist with us." She took my by the hand and stood up.

"Who's us?" I asked, standing reluctantly.

"Mr. Jerome and I. He's the understudy for Manjun." Brook explained, dragging me towards the stage.

"Have fun." Alex called after us. I would have dearly liked to respond, but Brook's presence prevented me, so I had to content myself with cursing in my head.

Brook set me to playing the love duet in the second act. It was one of the longest in all opera and we had to stop several times so either Brook or Jerome could make minor adjustments. For every minute of stage time, there is at least an hour of pedantic rehearsals and mind-numbing repetition. The best musicians can perform in their sleep, and after a while, the music starts to invade your dreams. Both Brook and Jerome were excellent singers, but hearing the same three lines over and over again was starting to get on my nerves.

"Damn and blast!" Brook cried and I crashed to a halt. "It just doesn't sound right, no matter what I do!"

"Practice, practice, practice." Jerome admonished.

"Let's skip it and move on." I suggested, and was ignored by both singers.

"Having fun?" Alex asked. I turned around to see him leaning on the edge of the orchestra pit. The sound of our practice carried through the Opera House and several members of the stage crew had gathered in the stalls, listening with critical appreciation. Virgil was in the second row, passing the inevitable flask between his neighbors.

"You have no idea. Thank God I don't understand a word they're saying; it'd be even more annoying. Where have you been?"

"I took a walk." Alex pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. "Check this out."

He jumped over the ledge separating the house from the orchestra pit and sat next to me on the piano bench. It looked like one of those artsy periodicals that most people subscribe to so they can leave it casually on a table and impress their guests.

"'Spain's La Belleza Gives Tepid Performance at the Garden'?" I read aloud.

"No, the other side."

" 'Listen to the Transcendent Melodies of the White Princess of Calcutta, Recently Arrived on England's Fair Shores from the Wilds of India'" All words failed me and I fell back upon an ancient phrase learned from my British grandma.

"I'll be mogadored."

An artist's rendition of a white Indian princess graced a full-page advert full of calligraphy. She was standing in front of a jungle background, with a tiger curled up at her feet like an overgrown housecat. Tiny lettering at the bottom of the page indicated that the Princess would be playing piano in the grand new opera _Bharata_, exclusively at the London Opera House.

"I'll be mogadored," I repeated.

"I particularly like the tiger," Alex said. "Nice touch."

"Oh shut up," I snapped automatically. I heard muffled sniggers from the seats.

"Who have you shown this to?" I demanded. Alex just grinned, knowing I knew the answer.

"Oh you'll pay for this one," I promised. "I don't know how, but you'll pay."

"It's a very nice picture of you, Miss," One of the stagehands called with a snigger. It could only be called a picture of me in the loosest sense of the word. She had white skin and blond hair, but that was the only resemblance.

"Oh, thank you very much. I think he particularly captured my eyes."

"Are you ready Solei?" Brook called down. The argument over pitch onstage had resolved itself and the duet was ready to resume.

"Yeah, let me find my place again," I called back. "Budge up; I can't reach the higher octaves." I added to Alex, with a nudge. He moved over to the violin chairs and began leafing through the magazine.

I got precisely seventeen measures into the duet before being interrupted by Marguerite in full fury.

"What is this racket?" She cried, storming onstage. Her tone and her expression were sweet, but it was the sweetness of strychnine dipped in honey.

"Just practicing, Marguerite," Brook replied with forced cheerfulness. "No one else was using the stage."

"Oh, but you've got it all wrong dear. You're completely out of key," I knew Marguerite was just talking trash, as did Brook and everyone else in the vicinity, but Brook flushed a deep red.

"Oh, and it's Miss Solly," Marguerite cried. "How delightful. I can see you're both getting some much needed practice today."

It appeared that Marguerite had added me to her enemies list as well.

"It's Miss Solei," I said icily. My accent, which usually vacillated between East and West End, anchored itself firmly in the aristocratic zone. "By the way Marguerite, have you seen the papers recently?"

"What papers?" Marguerite demanded, taken aback. Alex caught on to what I was doing and whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

"The Art and Culture of London."

"It's just that I'm a great reader of 'The Art and Culture of London', but I haven't had the chance to see the most recent edition. I wondered if you might have seen anything of interest in its pages?"

The arrow hit its mark. Marguerite turned white, then red. Her breathing became rapid, and I wondered with mild interest if she was going to explode. Marguerite had seen the advert featuring the Indian Princess, and was not happy to have her thunder stolen by a lowly pianist.

"I. have. not." She said, so sharply that each word sounded like its own sentence. She seemed to consider a further reply, but either couldn't think of one scathing enough or she saw that in a battle of wits, I would most likely win. I like to think the latter.

She took a deep breath and turned her attention firmly on Brook, who was fighting back laughter.

"In any case, I was just dropping by to see what that awful noise was," Marguerite said, with a bit more acid in her tone. Brook's smile disappeared.

"Perhaps you'd like to show me how to sing it?" She said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I'd love to, I'm sure," Marguerite sighed. "But I've got so much to do. You know the life of a _great_ singer take quite a lot of work."

"Nice one," Alex said softly. I turned and saw him stretched on his back across five violin chairs, "The Art and Culture of London" draped like a tent over his chest.

"Thanks for the assist," I replied, turning back to the drama unfolding onstage. I heard a creaking sound, as if a stressed out piece of metal was about to give way. Before I could process this thought though, several things happened very fast.

"Solei!" Alex shouted, jumping to his feet, scattering the chairs. He launched himself at me in a flying rugby tackle as I began to turn. The impact sent us both sprawling in the opposite direction.

The piano exploded in a major chord of broken strings and splintering wood. One ivory key hung forlornly from the keyboard and dropped to the ground with a sad _tink_ that echoed throughout the house.

* * *

_Author's note_

_Regarding Jerome: So it turns out, I originally gave Jerome the same name as the main villain. I didn't notice, and apparently no one else noticed either. I really recommend a website called . it's one of those websites that really sucks you in for hours, at a time, but it's also really valuable for making you think about how you have constructed your story and why. This was initially a violation of the "One Steve Limit"_

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	11. Friday : Introductions

**_Friday: Introductions_**

The sound of the exploding piano was nothing compared to the aftermath. Brook fainted and the smelling salts had to be brought out. Marguerite threw a fit of hysterics and departed for the Other Theatre. She had decided that the falling spotlight which had punched a hole in my piano was really meant for her, despite the fact she was standing way upstage when the spotlight dropped into the pit. Mr. Squires got an earful when he went to reason with her. The part of Layla then fell to Brook, who was overjoyed once she came around.

Word traveled fast in the circles of the Opera, and it wasn't long before stagehands, ballerinas and chorus members were arriving to gape at the destruction. The body of the piano had absorbed the brunt of the force, though there was a crack on the wooden floor that marked the final resting place of the spotlight. Alex was the hero of the stagehands for pulling off a rescue worthy of the stage. They kept clapping him on the back, saying "Good on yer," and offering to buy him a pint.

Both Alex and I were badly shaken, though Alex revived a bit under the continuous congratulations of his coworkers. I told everyone I was going to lie down for a bit and made an escape to Box Eight. I couldn't keep my hands from shaking, so I kept them tightly clenched on the gilt railing surrounding the box. Somehow, the damage looked less severe from up here.

I heard footsteps in the carpeted hallway, like someone trying very hard to be heard without being too obvious about it.

"Thought I'd find you up here." Alex said from the doorway. He flopped down into one of the ornate chairs.

"You were right. Sort of. Seems kinda obvious now."

"What?"

"The saboteur went _Phantom_–style. Destroying the instruments. No music, no opera, right? And since most people take their instruments home with them, the piano is a logical target."

"I just happened to glance up and I saw some movement in the flies." Alex said, resting his chin on the railing and staring down at the orchestra pit. "The chains holding the spotlight had given way and it was just hanging there by the last one. There was someone up there. I couldn't see him very well. He might have been trying to repair it or destroy it, I couldn't tell."

"Well, I kinda doubt he was up there for the view."

"When I looked back up he was gone. No surprise."

"I'd almost rather have an Opera Ghost. This place is insane," I sighed.

"I know."

"I mean, this Opera is like a train wreck. The cars have already jumped the tracks, and there's no stopping it until it runs out of momentum." I stopped abruptly, realizing that I was beginning to rant.

"Interesting metaphor," Alex said mildly.

"Yeah, well, it works."

We sat in silence for a few moments, watching the people down below attempting to clear away the wreckage of the piano. It would be just my luck that after all my work I wouldn't get to perform. I bet not many people have learned an entire opera in one week; although that's mainly 'cause most people aren't that stupid.

"At least we can eliminate Virgil from the list of suspects," Alex said. "He was sitting in the stalls, so he couldn't have possibly dropped a spotlight on you."

"I guess he was telling the truth last night. Weird. Think he'll turn out to be a police detective like in _Phantom_?"

"I doubt it."

"Five bucks?"

"Ahem."

"Oh, all right. Five pounds?"

"Done." He said and we shook hands on it. "C'mon. Let's go have a look at the crime scene."

"Hey, Alex? Thanks."

"Any time, mate."

* * *

By this time the curious had cleared out, so we could investigate the area of the flies where the spotlight had dropped from. The spotlights were attached to a framework suspended from the ceiling, which could be raised or lowered for maintenance. A narrow catwalk was suspended just above the framework so stagehands could operate the lights during performances.

"Nice view," I commented. We were perched directly above the orchestra pit, though anyone looking up would see only the metal catwalk and gantries. It was the perfect place to hide.

"Here's where it fell from," Alex called from further along the catwalk.

"Never would have noticed that," There was a gaping hole left between two other stage lights. The spotlight had been secured by four bolts and a chain. Three of the four bolts had been unscrewed and the fourth looked as if it had been sheared off.

"The real question is, how did he do it?" Alex replied, nodding at a wrench on the catwalk a few feet away.

"Okay," I said, trying to organize my thoughts. "So the saboteur decides he's going to drop a spotlight into my piano. So he comes up here with a wrench and starts unscrewing the bolts. Why didn't he screw all of them? That other one looks like the weight of the spotlight sheared it off."

"Something prevented him," Alex answered. "Like the appearance of three members of the Opera. He stayed up here for awhile, waiting for you to leave. See, he even smoked a cigarette." Alex pointed to a cigarette butt wedged in a metal joint.

"So he's sitting up here, waiting for you to leave, and all the while the stress on the bolt is increasing until it finally gives way. But the light is still attached to this chain, right? But the chain wasn't designed to hold any weight at all, so it's starting to give way too. See?" Alex held up the end of a length of chain for inspection. The final link was twisted apart.

"So he's trying frantically to keep the spotlight from falling, and this is when I notice the movement. So either he sees the coast is clear or he loses his grip and, boom! No more piano."

"The saboteur freaks out. What he intended to be a quiet job, just became very loud. So he runs for it, leaving behind his wrench, half a cigarette and these brown threads from his trousers."

"A masterly summation, I must say." A voice called from the end of the catwalk. I jumped and clung onto the grating for dear life.

"Who's that?" Alex called, trying to look around me. I carefully turned around. The end of the catwalk was a platform bolted to the side wall of the house. Standing there were two men, barely visible in the dim light.

"Virgil?" I asked.

"Yes, and no," I recognized his voice now, and was not really in the mood for a verbal fencing match.

"One or the other dude, or else we're getting into metaphysics territory," The other man muttered something that I couldn't make out, but Virgil nodded.

"An excellent point, my friend." He said, then called to us. "Let us talk about this on _terra firma_, shall we?"

I turned to Alex, who shrugged, then I began to crawl along the catwalk to the platform. The ceiling was so close here that if I stood up I would whack my head on it, something which I had just found out through experience about ten minutes ago. I slid onto the platform and down the ladder to the stage; not an easy trick in a sari and bare feet.

While Alex made his way down, I sized up Virgil and the new arrival. Virgil looked different; his clothes were of a noticeable higher quality and less covered in dirt and paint than his usual outfit, and he stood with a commanding air instead of his usual good-natured calm. The friend was a bit shorter than Virgil, but considerably bulkier, especially across the shoulders. He reminded me of an old high school English teacher who was ex-Air Force.

"Care to explain, Virgil?" Alex said as he jumped down to the stage. "And at the risk of sounding like a bad novel I add, if that is your real name?"

"I suppose introductions are in order," Virgil said. "You are correct. My true name is Sherlock Holmes, this is my associate Dr. John Watson."

"At your service," Watson said, with a brief bow in my direction. Alex choked. My jaw literally dropped. A lie that big had to be the truth. It was like bluffing with a royal flush; why would you need to? It was insane, but no more so than anything else that had happened this week.

"One moment," Alex said and grabbed me by the elbow. We moved off a couple steps. Holmes and Watson waited patiently while we conferred.

"Did you hear what I heard?" Alex hissed at me.

"I heard Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"But that's impossible. Fiction is fiction, isn't it?"

"Except when it's science fiction," I replied. "We've just traveled back a hundred years, I'm willing to go on a little faith here."

We turned back to two of the most famous men in Western literature.

"I'm Solei, this is Alex. Uh, hi."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	12. Friday : The Narrative of Dr John Watson

**_Friday: The Narrative of Dr John Watson_**

Holmes had always been a man who chafed at inactivity. In past days this meant he would often resort to the seven-percent solution, much to my professional and personal dismay. More recently, however, either my disapproval or his own distaste for the drug would send him on expeditions throughout the many layers of London to alleviate his boredom. Most often he would build contacts with the criminal underworld or apply himself to improving his craft, such as the time he spent as a blind man in order to develop his other senses.

It was on one of these expeditions in August of 1890 that we became involved in the most singular series of events that it challenged Holmes' old maxim of "There is nothing new under the sun."

The entire summer of 1890 was rather slow for Sherlock Holmes and I. London was in the middle of the hottest days of the summer, which sent all segments of London society, criminal and law-abiding, searching for cover. My medical practice was slow for the very same reasons.

Holmes had been absent from our sitting room at Baker Street for nearly a fortnight. I say absent, although he returned quite regularly, but only for rest and food before taking to the streets again. He was quite reticent about his activities, dismissing them as trivial, so I was quite surprised one Friday evening when my perfunctory inquires yielded a result.

"You know my methods, Watson. Apply them, and we shall see if you can hit the mark."

This was precisely what I had been doing over the past weeks, after Holmes had refused to speak. I felt rather like a pupil called up in front of the class to recite the lesson, and I was determined to do my best.

"Well, I believe you have obtained employment somewhere."

"A hit!" Holmes cried. "How do you deduce this?"

"You leave every morning quite punctually at eight, and return around seven. This indicates that there is someplace you must be every morning, which occupies you until the same time every day. When you leave, your clothes are fresh but when you return they are often covered in sawdust or have fresh paint stains. All of this leads me to believe that you have obtained a job, most probably as a builder or painter."

"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes said, clapping his hands. "You have got all the generalities precisely. Now allow me to fill in the details."

"If you had known where to look, you might have found me these past few weeks at the London Opera House under the name of Virgil Hawkins. I have been dirtying my hands with the stage crew. I must say that it has proved an invigorating experience, one which has been infinitely more valuable than if I had auditioned for a violin chair. My initial intention was no more than idle amusement. But I soon discovered this was not to be. Perhaps you are familiar with the recent formation of a new Opera company in the City?"

I replied that I was.

"An inevitable rivalry between these two opera houses has sprung up, which has manifested itself in the form of assault and sabotage. Two of the stagehands have been attacked, and a member of the orchestra was nearly killed today. Various small thefts and acts of vandalism have been carried out, all with the goal of either delaying or cancelling the opening night performance of _Bharata_."

"I was approached two weeks ago while I was in the form of one of my alter egos. It seemed that certain man wished to hire a certain type of person to perform a few small tasks for a very large fee."

It took me a moment to comprehend Holmes' meaning.

"You mean you were hired to perform the sabotage?" I asked. Holmes looked rather pleased.

"Indeed I was. By taking the task myself, I thought I could be sure that the sabotage would not occur. I would gain a little Opera experience, unmask a saboteur and allow the show to go forward unmolested. But it seems my employer has hired more than one malefactor."

Holmes then related to me the events of the past week, beginning with the appearance of the mysterious pianist, whose arrival coincided with the beginning of the major acts of sabotage.

"I first suspected the pianist when I learned the circumstances of her audition. She walked in off the street, with literally nothing but the clothes upon her back, and proceeded to play with such skill and originality as to totally eclipse any competition. Though, to be fair, her competition was one boy with no sense of rhythm."

"She claims to be newly-arrived from India, yet no ship from that land has come into port in the last month. She possesses a large degree of natural musical talent, though she is clearly out of practice. It seems that she was hired mainly on the strength of the spectacle and rumour that the presence of a self-proclaimed Indian 'princess' would create."

"Although," Holmes added, with a hint of amusement, "She seems rather embarrassed by the good Mr. Squires attempts to create publicity for her. She has confided to me, or to 'Virgil' rather, that she wishes he would 'knock it off.' She has dropped her last name, which is Watson, by the way, on the orders of the owner, Mr. Squires in order to enhance her air of mystery."

Holmes stood and began to pace the room as he talked. He did not appear to be addressing me, but I was familiar enough with his manner to know he was merely trying to organize his thoughts.

"So here is a woman, with much talent and little ambition who has easily captured a position which she would rather not have. Why? I ask myself. There must be some incentive for her to create such a specious tale and become the pianist of the London Opera."

"She is also either rather oblivious to, or extremely resistant to flirtation."

"Holmes!" I said, disapprovingly, but he waved away my objection with a smile. Holmes could be extremely charming to the ladies, but he only cared to exert himself in that manner in the service of a case.

"Her companion Alexander presents me with a similar conundrum. He simply appeared, a day after she, among the stage crew. He adopted the same strategy as myself, which was merely to look as if I was employed in some task until I was accepted as a member of the stage crew. Human nature, Watson, is so wonderfully consistent. I looked as if I worked there; therefore I was accepted as an employee with virtually no questioning."

"Casual conversations with Mr. Alexander inevitably turn to philosophical or scientific subjects, a tendency which dissuaded all by myself and Miss Solei from his company. He is a fierce debater, with a lightning tongue, though his proofs sometimes lack logic. So we have a gentleman, who had also abandoned his family name, with either a University education or voracious appetite for books, who is doing hard manual labour on a stage crew."

"The two are clearly old friends. I have seen Miss Solei and Mr. Alexander together on several occasions, sometimes lurking in areas of the Opera House in which they have no business being. I have also seen Mr. Alexander emerging from the lady's room on more than one occasion. Their manner with each other is decidedly familiar, yet oddly platonic."

"A highly suspect pair." I agreed. "You believe them to be behind the accidents at the Opera."

"No. I do not." Holmes said. "I did at first, especially when I could not account for both of their whereabouts during these attacks. Baron LaValle is one of the main financial backers of the Theatre Royal. He is also a personal rival of Mr Loman, although no two accounts can agree why. I would not put it past him to stoop to theft, vandalism and assault in order to eliminate his competition. I suspect that he is my erstwhile 'employer' but I have no proof. As yet."

"There is certainly some other agent at work here, most likely hired by LaValle in order to delay the opening performance of _Bharata_. I doubt, however, that LaValle specifically ordered the attacks recently perpetrated. It has to me the air of an act of desperation by a man who is fast running out of options."

"But neither Alexander nor Miss Solei has much interest in the rivalry building between the two companies. In fact, when I informed Miss Solei, she seemed mildly surprised that there was another Opera House in the city of London. And then there is the incident of the spotlight."

"The spotlight?" I asked, when Holmes did not elaborate.

"Yes, the spotlight. Miss Solei and two of the singers were rehearsing onstage today. The debut is tomorrow, so today was the Sabbath of the Opera, and there were no others to interrupt the rehearsal. Myself and several other members of the stage crew were gathered in the house for the impromptu performance."

"Alexander had obtained a press release pertaining to Miss Solei's début and was teasing her about it, so he was sitting in the orchestra pit. The spotlight suspended directly above the piano was cut loose. Alexander tackled Miss Solei in a manner worthy of the rugby pitch only moments before the spotlight smashed the piano into fragments. If he had hesitated for even a second, I have no doubt she would have been seriously injured, if not killed."

"Dear Lord," I murmured. "But, do you not think that the attack on Miss Solei might have been orchestrated to remove suspicion from her?" I asked hesitantly.

"And excellent insight Watson! You improve all the time. The thought had occurred to me, but I have dismissed it for several reasons; not the least of which is the nearness of her escape. Few men would have the steadiness of nerve to cut it so close, let alone a woman."

"No, it is final proof of their innocence. In this matter at least. I suspect the pair of them are fleeing from something." Holmes waved away this speculation as trivial. "But their presence, though of interest, has no bearing on what I fear is a straightforward case of sabotage. I shall be returning this evening in order to take a closer look at the scene of the crime."

"Do you object to my coming along?" I asked.

"Not at all. It may make for an interesting footnote in those stories of yours. But first, we must not allow Mrs. Hudson's excellent food to go to waste."

Holmes and I returned to the Opera House later that night, just as the sun was beginning to set. I confess I expected a more dramatic mode of arrival. I thought that the Opera building would undoubtedly be locked and we would have to force entrance. Instead we paid off the cabbie on the steps of the Opera and trotted around back, where a stage door was propped open for ventilation. An elderly man perched on a stack of crates near the door, smoking a cigarette. He returned Holmes' brief nod and allowed us to pass with no challenge.

"The cast should all be at supper now, but we shall have to be cautious." Holmes whispered. "The saboteur may still be lurking in the wings."

We quietly crept across the dim region backstage. The props and sets had a strange, unearthly feel about them away from the bright glare of the footlights. Muffled voices could be heard coming from somewhere in the depths of the building where the cast and crew were dining. A narrow ladder was set against the far wall, leading to a platform that was perhaps twenty or thirty feet above the stage level.

We had climbed up to the platform when Holmes paused. Voices could still be heard from the canteen, but now I could hear a second set of voices nearby. Holmes touched my hand and gestured at the catwalk. I peered down the shadowy length and suddenly I could just make out two figures perched on the metal grating. I could not make out precisely what they were saying, but Holmes listened intently, with an expression of growing amusement.

"It seems Watson, that we have found kindred spirits," he muttered to me, and then called out in a loud voice. "A masterly summation, I must say."

The two figures jumped, badly startled.

"Who's that?" The man called.

"Virgil?" The lady asked, nearly at the same time.

"Yes, and no," Holmes replied.

"One or the other dude," she snapped wearily, "or else we're getting into metaphysics territory."

"Holmes, perhaps this conversation would be best carried out on solid ground." I suggested. Holmes acquiesced and we returned to the stage below. The lady and the gentleman followed, both eyeing us with suspicion.

The man was dressed in plain labourer's clothes with several days' worth of dirt ground in. The lady presented a most singular contrast to her companion. She wore the native dress of an Indian woman; swaths of indigo silk formed the skirt, but the brief blouse left her stomach nearly bare. I had seen women dressed in this manner during my tour of duty in India and Afghanistan in the Army Medical Department, but to see a fellow countrywoman in a sari without a hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness was something of a shock.

Proper introductions were made, and both stared at us as if we were mad. The gentleman asked for a moment and pulled his partner off for a whispered tête-à-tête. This was not an uncommon reaction for people to have when first encountering Sherlock Holmes. After a few moments, the lady turned and addressed us.

"I'm Solei, this is Alex. Uh, hi."

"It seems we are working towards the same goal," Holmes said.

"We are?" Mr. Alex replied.

"You are investigating the recent string of sabotages, are you not?"

"What do you know about it?" Alex asked eagerly.

"I know that you are not responsible."

"Us? Responsible?" Miss Solei interjected. "Why would we… although it rather makes sense when you think about it."

"We had the same suspicions about you, until this afternoon," Alex admitted. He would have continued, but a noise from the opposite side of the stage caused us all to freeze, as if we were criminals caught in the act. The elderly stagehand had returned. He crossed the stage without taking notice of any of us and exited through a side door.

"Maybe we should talk somewhere less suspicious. C'mon," Alex said peremptorily and turned on his heel. I cast a glance over at Holmes, who seemed more amused than annoyed at their reactions.

Mr. Alex led our little band up a back staircase to the reserved boxes, where he removed a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the boxes. As we walked I heard Miss Solei whisper to her companion.

"Five pounds."

"No way," he whispered back.

"C'mon. Five pounds if he was a detective."

"You said police detective."

"Fine. Split the difference and call it even."

"Fine."

"How did you find this place?" Holmes asked as Alex pulled the heavy carved chairs into a circle. At close range I realized both were much younger than I had first thought; neither could be much more than twenty years.

"The keys were hanging in the janitor's closet down the hall," Miss Solei said. "They always have the keys to everything."

"Now, you said you're trying to uncover this saboteur. Did the manager hire you?" Alex asked.

"No. I was merely... in the vicinity. I was working here under the name of Virgil when the sabotage began to occur, and I have undertaken the case of my own volition."

"Fate," Miss Solei said softly. Mr. Alex pretended not to hear. Holmes gave her a curious glance, but she did not seem inclined to elaborate.

"Were you following us Tuesday night?" Alex demanded. An expression of surprise crossed Holmes' face, but he concealed it so quickly I was not sure of it myself.

"Yes," Holmes replied calmly. "The pair of you appeared very suspicious, sneaking around in the depths of the Opera House late at night."

"Good to know it wasn't just paranoia," Miss Solei said.

"Now I have a question for you, both of you," Holmes said quickly, before either of them could take control of the conversation again. "You, Mademoiselle, are most definitely not from India. What is a transplanted American with a knee injury, a university education, and a general indifference towards her musical studies doing with an Oxford-educated man with martial training, a rather expensive wrist watch rather than the more usual pocket watch, and a similar disinterest in his studies? And what has brought you both to this Opera?"

The two exchanged a glance before answering. I was surprised to hear the lady referred to as an American. Her accent seemed to me rather odd to me, but essentially that of a Londoner.

"We'd rather not say," Miss Solei answered simply. I confess her answer shocked me, and it seemed to confound Holmes as well. Over the years Holmes' questions had often met with lies, evasion and eventually, the truth, but never outright refusal.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we plead the Fifth."

"Wrong country," Mr. Alex pointed out.

"Whatever. I will tell you that we've done nothing wrong, illegal, immoral, illicit or anything along those lines. You're after the guy who dropped a spotlight through my piano, yes?"

Holmes nodded.

"Then we're on your side," she concluded, somewhat hotly. I thought it strange that she mentioned the destroyed instrument rather than her own near escape, but perhaps her attitude was merely that of a dedicated musician.

Holmes looked from one to the other for a long moment. Both Mr. Alex and Miss Solei returned his gaze evenly.

"Very well," he said at last. "Since you insist on involving yourselves. I would rather have you working with us than bumbling about on your own and getting underfoot."

Mr. Alex stiffened at Holmes' tone and would have responded, but Miss Solei laid a restraining hand on his and gave him a stern look. Mr. Alex subsided reluctantly. Holmes did not react to the silent exchange, but I knew his keen eyes had seen it.

"Is this amenable to you?" he asked.

"Fine," Alex said, with a small gesture of defeat.

"Since you have done such an excellent job of examining the crime scene in the flies, perhaps you would also like to share your list of suspects?"

It was less a question than a challenge and Mr. Alex rose to the occasion. Several names, which were meaningless to both myself and Miss Solei were tossed back and forth. Anyone whose whereabouts could not be accounted for during the attacks was automatically made suspect, and unfortunately that made for a great many suspects. But between the two of them, Alex and Holmes were able to narrow the list considerably.

Miss Solei glanced at me and rolled her eyes in shared commiseration at being left out of the conversation. I confess I was baffled by this woman, who was so radically different in voice and stance from the women I knew. I wondered if all the ladies of the theatre behaved in this fashion, or it was just an American affectation.

"I don't suppose it's possible that it could someone outside of the stage crew," Miss Solei asked.

"Doubtful," Holmes answered her. "Who else would have the necessary knowledge or access?"

"Only four guys were MIA for all three attacks," Alex said, slouching back in his chair. "There's Jenkins, DeWitt, Salsbury and Miles. But I think we can rule out Miles anyway."

"Who's Miles?" Miss Solei asked.

"The really old guy who's in charge of the scene shifters."

"Alex and I shall keep an eye on DeWitt and Salsbury," Holmes continued. "They will both be working with the lights, so Watson, if you are willing to play the role of a stagehand, you will watch Jenkins."

"I shall do my best," I replied.

"If this keeps up, soon there'll be more fake stagehands than real ones," Alex commented.

"I guess my job is just to sit around and look pretty then," Miss Solei said, with a hint of weary amusement in her voice.

"And to play the piano," Holmes added. "We shall make final arrangements tomorrow. I shall ask Lestrade to be on the scene in case we need him."

"That's it?" Mr. Alex asked, with a note of disbelief. "That's not much of a plan."

"I think you shall find," Holmes replied easily, "that the simplest plans are often the most effective."

* * *

_Author's note_

_Regarding Virgil: Virgil Hawkins is the name of a character from a cartoon show I rather liked as a child, called "Static Shock". When I first gave Holmes the pseudonym, it just seemed to flow, although it took me a while to remember why._

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	13. Saturday: Dramatic Tension Builds

**_Saturday: Dramatic Tension Builds_**

**_Solei Returns_**

I awoke the next morning to an Opera in a state of barely controlled panic. Aside from the usual opening night hysterics on the part of the cast, the stage crew was trying frantically to repair the damage done by last night's falling spotlight. Alex informed me of their progress through the door as I changed into my new scarlet sari.

"They've got all the wreckage cleared away, but the real problem is getting a new piano."

"Why's that a problem?" I asked.

"There isn't one in the entire city. Not a lot of demand for grand pianos, so each one is generally custom-ordered. It doesn't have to be a grand piano," Alex continued, mostly to himself. "What's wrong with an upright piano?" Despite the door, I managed to create a sarcastic silence.

"The sound's all wrong," I said. "It would throw off the acoustic dynamic of the orchestra."

"I doubt that people would notice."

"So do I. But logic had no place in Opera."

"I've noticed."

"All clear. What do you think?" I opened the door for Alex to enter.

"I think it's a good thing Marguerite defected to the Other Opera. She'd probably kill you for stealing the spotlight with that outfit."

"Awww, aren't you sweet," I started in on the massive pile of jewelry we'd pulled out of the storage trunks. If I was going to be playing at the exotic Indian princess, I might as well go all the way.

"You missed a spot, though."

It turns out getting tackled by a guy who weighs at least 30 pounds more than you, and landing in a pile of folding chairs can leave a few bruises. The folds of the sari hid most of them, but I ended up borrowing (read: stealing) some stage makeup from the Corps de Ballet. Alex smeared some more over a bruise on the back of my arm.

"I wonder what the saboteur's next move will be?" Alex asked, as he stretched out on the bed.

"We'll, if I was him, I'd wait and see if the destroyed piano would do the trick. But then again, we haven't had much luck predicting this guy's moves."

"That's because he's an amateur," Alex scoffed. "If he were a professional, it would be easy to predict what his next move would be. As it is, Sherlock's plan is our best shot. By the way, did you notice that Mister Holmes paired me and him up?" Alex asked. I noted the heavy sarcasm on Mister.

"I did notice. He's still not sure that you might be working as a team with the saboteur. This way he can keep an eye on you, and the other suspects," I grinned. "I guess Psych 1000 wasn't all for naught after all."

"Probably would have been more helpful if you went to lectures more often."

"Hey, I only ditched on purpose a couple of times."

"What about the other dozen times?"

"Slept through it, occasionally while in the lecture hall," I finished fiddling with the earrings and turned my attention to the bangles. I wouldn't wear them while playing, but until then I was going all out.

"Do you think he's really _the_ Sherlock Holmes?" I asked my own Alexander Holmes.

"I dunno. One the one hand, he's fiction, but on the other, so is time travel."

"I know. If this is possible, then anything could be possible."

"You're not going to bring up fate again?"

"Fate? No. Kismet, possibly, but not fate," Alex rolled his eyes.

"I'm going downstairs to find Virgil-slash-Sherlock Holmes," he said, getting up.

"I'll see you down there," I called after him. Once I had all my glass baubles arranged satisfactorily, I checked my reflection in the small mirror. If a sari could cause a commotion among the Theatre crowd, I couldn't wait to see its effect on a crowd of respectable Victorians. But shocking sensibilities would have to wait; I needed to check on the progress of my new piano.

I found a group of stagehands staring half-heartedly at the open space where the piano used to be. Miles, as the most senior member of the stage crew had taken on the duties of stage manager while Mr. Barnes recovered from his head wound. He greeted me with a nod, unaffected by my new outfit. He'd probably seen much more shocking things in his years at the Opera.

"I suppose there's been no progress on a new piano," I asked.

"There will be a replacement here in two weeks," Miles replied, "but we'll not need it by then."

"Perhaps this is a silly question, but what about the one backstage?" I offered. The stagehands looked baffled.

"Which one backstage?"

* * *

"It's impossible."

"S'not."

"How do you figure?"

"'Cause it's there." The other stagehand found this line of reasoning hard to argue with and admitted defeat. I'd led the group of stagehands backstage to the impossible practice room. The piano in there was only a baby grand piano, but the acoustics were good enough for it to act as a replacement for the time being. Now the problem was getting the piano from where it was to where it needed to be.

The stagehands had tried everything to get the piano to fit through the door. Nothing worked, not even taking the legs off.

"Someone got it in; there must be a way to get it out," Miles said with determination.

"I've got an idea," I offered.

"Yes, lass?"

"I don't think you'll like it."

"You can tell me lass, then I will tell you if I like it."

"Well, I think the piano was there first and the wall was built after it, so the piano never actually went through the door," I paused. Miles nodded for me to continue. "I don't think there is a way to get it out the door, but you could take it out through the wall."

Miles deliberated my suggestion for a minute, then turned to one of his subordinates.

"Murphy, go get the sledgehammer."

* * *

"Wow."

"I know," Alex and I stood before the new door to the practice room. It was roughly piano-shaped.

"I'm glad I wasn't on that work crew," Alex said. "I met up with the other Holmes and Watson. They're going to have a couple of cops in the audience, just in case we need some legitimate authority."

"You do realize that we've got no hard evidence whatsoever?" I asked Alex.

"Doesn't seem to bother Mr. Holmes," he shrugged. "We'll probably get him on conspiracy to commit assault, but anything else he'll have to confess to."

"And the employer gets off scot-free."

"Unless we find some conveniently incriminating letters, yes."

* * *

The chaos of the Opera swirled all around, but I remained apart. It felt surreal to be worried about capturing a saboteur when all those around me were searching frantically for their other shoe or the right shade of lipstick, all the while calling out the time left until the curtains rose. It was like listening to a really stressed out New Year's Eve party.

There was about an hour left before the curtain rose. The audience was beginning to arrive.

Alex, Holmes and Watson were already engaged in tailing their respective suspects. Alex gave me a wave when I caught sight of him perched in the flies. The good doctor was on stage level, keeping an eye on one of the scene shifters. The loss of two of their number had left the stage crew too harried to notice the extra man backstage, as long as he kept out of trouble.

I fiddled with the tail end of the sari as I watched the frantic activity backstage. I was trying hard not to think of anything at all, because my thoughts inevitably turned to the disasters that the saboteur could cause if the boys failed to catch him. I took some comfort, however, in knowing that the spotlight above my piano hadn't been replaced yet, so I wouldn't have to keep looking up during the performance.

I realized what I was doing and dropped the end of the sari. My hands had a mind of their own, though, because a few minutes later I realized I was twiddling with my earring.

"Have you played in the Opera before?" Watson asked me. I jumped and nearly fell off the stool I was perched on. I had been so distracted I hadn't noticed his approach.

"Not in the Opera. Er, smaller venues, though."

"Holmes has told me of your musical talents. I am sure you will do quite well."

"It comes back to you now, how many hours you could have spent practicing. You're never sure if you've practiced enough until you get to the ovation. It's the same way with exams. I always feel prepared until I turn over the paper and there's a carboxyl group staring me in the face."

Carboxyl groups happened to be on my mind at the moment because of a test I had taken a couple of weeks ago during the summer semester. I was really mad about that test, because carboxyl groups were definitely not on the study guide. I think that's like cheating, when a professor fails to tell you what he's going to test you on.

"Carboxyl group? You've read chemistry?" Watson asked, with a note of shock in his voice. Normally I would have said something sarcastic, but I remembered when I was.

"Present tense." I decided to give him the truth. "I'm studying for medical school."

"Oh." Watson considered this for a moment. "You are studying to be a nurse?" He asked with innocent curiosity. Sadly, this was the question I usually got in the present day too. Don't get me wrong; nurses are wonderful, magical people who get a lot of crap and not enough credit. But not every woman in the hospital is a nurse, just like not every guy is a doctor. I mean, what century are you living in?

I caught myself mid-mental rant and grinned. That was indeed an excellent question.

"No, I'm studying to be a doctor, with lots of lovely letters after my name. Surgery, internal med, cardiology, there's just so much to choose from." To his credit, Watson digested the idea of a female doctor very well; better, in fact, than some so-called modern men.

"And Mr. Alexander, is he studying at university too?"

"Yeah." I nodded, and my dangly earrings chimed together. "For a philosophy degree. What use is a philosophy degree, I ask you?"

"Why did you decide to come to the Opera? Are you here just for the summer?" Watson asked. It was only then that I realized what he was doing. Mr. Sherlock Holmes got answers out of you by giving the impression he could read them off the back of your skull if he wished. Dr. John Watson got answers out of you with patient, circular probing, until you'd revealed all your secrets without even realizing it.

"Hard to say, really," I answered him.

"Forgive my curiosity, but I must ask. What is your relationship with Mr. Alex, exactly?"

_Funny you should ask_, I thought, _I was just wondering that myself_. I had been sharing a room with one of my best friends, who happened to be a boy, for the past week. It wasn't the first time we'd shared a room, although admittedly, those other times the rest of The Irregulars had been there too. But that entire time it hadn't been the least bit awkward, until Thursday night/Friday morning when I'd went and gotten drunk and kissed him.

"Friends. We're just friends."

Doc Watson didn't get to finish his interrogation, because one of the ballerinas came bouncing over.

"Solei? Solei! You'd better come quick Miss Solei!" She said in a shrill, breathless voice that reminded me strongly of a whistle.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Miss Brook! She won't come out of her dressing room!"

* * *

_Author's note_

_Regarding the piano: The line "What's wrong with an upright piano?" was the line that made me want to redo everything. Initially, Solei asked this question, but, being the pianist, she would obviously know the difference between and upright and a grand piano. I only intended to make some minor changes, but I kept finding sections that I thought I could do better, and I ended up writing another 6,000 or so words. _

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	14. Saturday: Doctor Watson's Thoughts

**_Saturday: Doctor Watson's Thoughts_**

I confess I felt rather like a hunter in the Indian jungle, spying upon his prey. I had been assigned to watch the movement of a sceneshifter by the name of Jenkins. He was leaned up against the wall, observing the activity around him and doing nothing suspicious whatsoever. Miss Solei had just been dragged away to help soothe the hysterics of one of the other ladies of the Opera.

As I watched the suspect, my mind drifted back to the morning. Holmes had insisted that I familiarize myself with the layout of the opera house, so I found myself in the balcony when several stagehands, with the assistance of a block-and-tackle, maneuvered a new piano into the orchestra pit. It was a tense affair, and there was an audible sigh of relief once the piano was in place.

Mr. Alex and Miss Solei had appeared on stage during this process. The acoustics of the theatre were marvelous, and I could hear nearly every word that transpired.

"I really hope that's still in tune," Miss Solei said, sitting on the edge of the stage while the ropes were cleared away.

"If it wasn't, would you be able to fix it before tonight?"

"Probably not," Miss Solei conceded. She hopped lightly into the pit and took her seat before the instrument. She played a few random notes, then proceeded methodically from the lowest note to the highest.

Now Holmes would be the first to tell you that I am no musical genius, but to me each note sounded pure and true.

"It'll do," Miss Solei said.

"You're barely going to use that lowest octave," Alex said reprovingly. He perched on the edge of the stage, rolling a gold coin over his knuckles.

"The other one had better tone. Poor thing," she sighed. She played a few more notes, somewhat idly, then plunged into a piece I had never heard before. It was bright and lilting, somehow jaunty, and entirely at odds with her melancholy appearance. Holmes was right, the girl certainly had talent.

After a few minutes, Mr. Alex moved from the stage to the piano bench, taking possession of the lower octaves. The melody grew more complex, and the jauntiness was overtaken by a wistful joy, of things past. They sat shoulder to shoulder for some minutes, weaving the simple melody into an ethereal elegy. If they spoke, I could not hear.

Later that afternoon I reported my findings to Holmes, who responded with an indifferent grunt and filed the information away in his capacious brain.

One of the few subjects, perhaps the only subject, in which I considered myself superior to Holmes was matters of the heart. If these two youths were not lovers, perhaps they were near enough so as to make no difference.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	15. Saturday: Climax and Anticlimax

**_Saturday: Climax and Anticlimax_**

"Brook? It's Solei." No answer. The audience of ballerinas held their breath. At least five of them were crowded into the tiny hallway.

"Shouldn't you be stretching or something?" I asked.

"What about Brook?" One asked, not taking the hint.

"I'll take care of Brook. Get lost." The ballerinas went off in a sulk and I turned me attention back to the door. It was unlocked.

"Brook?" I stuck my head in carefully. I didn't want to be on the receiving end of a ballistic shoe or vase. Brook was sitting in front of her dressing table, her face a mask of quiet fear.

It never failed. There was always someone who has a meltdown on opening night, and somehow it was always up to me to coax them out of hiding.

"Are you all right?"

"I can't do this." She sounded as if she was on the brink of tears.

"'Course you can. I've been listening to you in practice all week. You sound fantastic." This was, strictly speaking, a lie. I hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to Brook's singing, or anyone else's for that matter, until the night of the falling spotlight. But she did sound good then.

"No I can't. I must have been mad to agree to this."

"You can do this." I said. "You have done this."

"But that's just practice. Practice doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"A full house on Opening Night. I must have been mad to agree," Brook said, ignoring the question. I glanced at her bedside clock. It was a half hour to curtain. We didn't have time for this.

"Dear me, and what would Marguerite think?" I said sarcastically. Brook stiffened at the mention of her formal rival. "She walks away and the whole Opera falls apart."

"Do you really think I can do this?" Brook asked, turning to look me in the eye. Professional pride was beginning to win out over stage fright.

"I know it." Brook examined herself in the mirror critically and stood with a sigh.

"The show must go on."

* * *

I'd always wondered about that particular phrase. The show must go on. Why? What was so important about the show? It was just entertainment. If the show stopped, the worst that could happen was an angry crowd and a bad review in the morning edition. It wasn't like it was life or death, was it?

I didn't have much time to ponder the aphorism, since I was due in the orchestra pit five minutes ago for the inevitable tuning up. Most people find this part annoying or funny, nothing but a grating atonal dissonance. To me, that's the sound of magic.

Brook's crisis averted, I rushed downstairs, hoping that the orchestra hadn't walked out yet. There was quite a lot of impersonal shoving going on backstage as people tried to get organized and in position for the curtain. No one bothered with excuses, because if they did, they'd never stop talking.

So I hardly noticed when someone ran into me so hard he bounced off the opposite wall.

"Miss Solei!" He called.

"Sorry, I've got to go." I apologized without looking.

"But I need to speak to you." He said, running to catch up with me. I took an actual look at him and recognized Junior the Stagehand.

"Can't it wait? I'm due in the pit."

"Not really." Junior cast a glance around, then steered me down the hallway leading to the practice rooms. "Over here, where we can hear better."

"I can hear you fine. What is it?

"The conductor wanted me to have a word with you."

"He did?" I asked, baffled. Why was Dr. Cocteau sending stagehands on errands? "What about?"

"I am sorry about this." Junior said. The mental alarms went off, but it was too late. Junior shoved me into one of the practice rooms and slammed the door shut behind him. I tripped over my pretty skirt and landed hard. There was no lock on the door, so Junior took one of the wooden chairs and jammed it under the doorknob.

"I am really sorry about this. I don't want to hurt anyone, but you can't go out there." Junior swung around, a small penknife in one hand. He was sweating and cracking his knuckles nervously. Options flashed through my mind at lightening speed. Junior was a couple of inches shorter than I was and probably not as good at kung fu as me, but he wasn't wearing six yards of silk. I could scream, but these rooms were meant to be soundproof, so it was unlikely anyone would hear me.

"Just sit down and shut up."

"Right. Fine," I said quickly, then I added to myself in a whisper. "I'm just the drummer, how the hell did this happen?"

"Fine?"

"Yep. I'm fine." Junior didn't know how to take this.

"I expected a bit of protest," he admitted.

"Yeah, well, it's only opera, after all." I shrugged. "So, you're the one behind all these sabotages?" I hoped that Alex was on his way. I should have had him point out the potential suspects to me, but I had been more worried about my début.

"Yes. Terribly sorry about the spotlight, by the way." He grinned, not sounding very sorry. "Just business."

"I see." Unfortunately, Junior didn't know me well enough to recognize my tone. Alex called it the Voice of Doom, but only when he thought I wasn't listening. "You're working for LaValle then?"

"Pays a lot better then hauling furniture about. Unfortunately, I don't get paid until the curtain fails to rise. And they can't start the opera without their star attraction." His voice was casual as he paced the room. He was trying for a Bond-villain level of casual menace and failing utterly.

"How much better? Just out of curiosity," I added when Junior paused in his pacing to stare in disbelief.

I didn't get an answer, because the cavalry chose that moment to arrive.

Something impacted against the door with a loud bang. Junior whirled around, swinging in the knife around as he went so that I had to jump back to avoid it. There was another impact and the doorframe began to splinter. I backed into the far corner to get out of the line of fire. After the third hit the chair fell over and the door slammed open.

"Halt!" Watson cried. Junior brandished his knife wildly. Alex and Holmes appeared in the doorway behind Watson.

"Stay back!" Junior shrieked. All his plans had fallen apart; he was cornered. A sensible person would have backed down, given up. But Junior had proved that he was anything but sensible. He brandished the penknife ineffectually.

"Chill, dude," Alex called over Watson's shoulder.

"You are surrounded," Holmes added. "Give up now and it will go easier for you."

"I'm not finished yet," Junior growled, in a final display of idiocy. "You're going to let me walk right out of here." He kept the knife pointed at the three men in one hand, while the other searched wildly behind his back for me. I was not about to become a fainting hostage, so I took the initiative.

I grabbed Junior from behind, wrapped one arm around his neck and grabbed the wrist holding the knife with the other. He was so surprised that he dropped the knife.

Watson leapt forward while Holmes and Alex both tried to get through the door at the same time. Junior automatically jumped backwards. I was slammed against the opposite wall and slid down to the ground, coughing. I shook my head to clear the sparks from my vision and took in the scene in front of me.

Watson was sitting on Junior while Holmes applied handcuffs to the man's wrists. Alex was crouched in front of me, grinning.

"Nice move," he said.

"Thanks. Help me up."

"I suppose we shall have to add attempted kidnapping to your list of offenses, Mr. Jenkins."

"Damn. I bet this means I'll have to testify again." Watson looked shocked, Holmes looked thoughtful and Alex was sniggering at me. In the distance I heard the sound of the orchestra tuning.

"Shit! I'm late!"

"Break a leg!" Alex called down the hall as I sprinted as fast as possible for the stage. I knocked over two ballerinas before skidding to a halt in the wings. I took a deep breath, smoothed the folds of my sari and strolled sedately out to the pit.

I tried to ignore the sudden hush, then considerable upswing in noise that followed my entrance. It was just as well Marguerite was gone; she would have murdered me on the spot. The conductor favored me with a glare as I took my seat.

Dr. Cocteau tapped his baton against the music stand. The noise level in the house took an abrupt upswing then faded into silence. A thousand people held their breath, and the prelude started.

I wonder if the audience could sense the tension humming along underneath the grandiose measures. I certainly could. Members of the orchestra kept glancing up nervously, and the ballerinas refused to dance over the trapdoors, making for some interesting new choreography.

But nothing happened. One of the violins biffed in the opening movements and the flute solo started a beat too late, but that was it. No explosions, no falling lights, no dramatics at all besides the ones on stage. It was terribly anticlimactic.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	16. Saturday: Same Song, Second Act

**_Saturday: Same Song, Second Act_**

**_Doc Watson_**

"Have you seen anything of interest?" A familiar voice murmured in my ear. As if the thought had summoned him, Holmes had managed to sneak up on me unnoticed.

"Nothing yet."

"Nothing from my pigeon either. He is currently flirting with one of the ballerinas." I had noticed the man Holmes was talking about. By the look on the young lady's face, he was doomed to failure.

"And Mr. Alex?"

"Up here." We both looked upward. The young Mr. Alex was perched in the flies above us, like a monkey. "My guy is currently picking his teeth."

"I suppose it is too much to hope that our criminal has given up." I said.

"You are correct, Watson." Holmes replied. "He has risked too much to stop this Opera. He will not give up now."

"Where's Solei?" Alex called down.

"A Miss Brook had a crisis," I said, as much to Holmes as to Alex. "Miss Solei was called in to assist. There she is."

I was not the only one to note Miss Solei's arrival. Jenkins moved quickly across the stage and took the musician by the elbow. They exchanged a few words and I could see her expression change from confusion to horrified realization. Jenkins forced Miss Solei down a side hallway and my heart sank.

"It's him!" Holmes cried. Alex vaulted down the ladder to the stage. We three dashed across the stage, dodging sopranos and stagehands hauling props. It seemed to take an eternity as visions of disaster flashed through my mind. To think that three men could fail to protect one woman when she was only a few yards away

We reached the hallway at nearly the same time. It was a dead end with several doors leading off and, most bafflingly, a large hole had been knocked in one wall. I could hear voices from one room halfway down the hall. It was locked.

Holmes understood the situation in a second and set about breaking the door down. After three blows the door gave way, and we faced the saboteur.

"Stay back!" He snarled, brandishing a knife like a cornered animal. Miss Solei crouched fearfully in the far corner.

"Chill, dude." Mr. Alex called over my shoulder. A small part of my mind wondered at his strange diction.

"You are surrounded." Holmes said calmly. "Surrender now."

"I'm not done yet!" Jenkins cried, reaching for Miss Solei. "You're going to let me go."

Before any of us could react, Miss Solei took matters into her own hands. She leapt, grabbing her assailant around the neck and knocking the knife from his hand. Jenkins jumped backwards, slamming her against the wall and she slid, half-fainting, to the floor. Holmes and I wrestled Jenkins to the ground and Holmes secured the saboteur with handcuffs. I turned in time to see Alex help Miss Solei to her feet.

"I suppose we shall have to add attempted kidnapping to your list of offenses, Mr. Jenkins." Holmes said, as he pulled Jenkins to his feet. Miss Solei swore softly.

"I bet this means I'll have to testify again." She said to Alex. She cocked her head, listening, and a look of panic crossed her face. She swore again and dashed out the door, headed for the orchestra pit.

"Break a leg!" Mr. Alex called after her.

"She was nearly killed and she is worried about missing the curtain?" I asked, frankly bewildered. Alex turned to me and grinned.

"It's an Opera thing."

* * *

_Author's Note_

_Regarding slang: Turns out that 'dude' as a slang term originates in the mid 19__th__ century and originally referred to a someone who was very fashionable or a dandy. It also meant a city person who was useless in the country [see: dude ranch]. It apparently wasn't a generic term for a person until the 1960s. slang is cool, but surprisingly complicated._

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	17. Saturday: The After Party

**_Saturday: The After Party_**

**_Solei _**

The intermission came with a collective sigh of relief on the part of the cast. More than half the orchestra schlepped off to the pub during the break, but I turned down the invitation to come with them. Instead I bummed a cigarette to calm my shaking nerves and then went to track down Alex.

As I turned down the hallway leading to the practice rooms I heard yells and a loud crash. Jenkins stumbled out of a doorway, careened off the opposite wall and accelerated in my direction. His hands were still in the handcuffs and at some point he'd been gagged, but he still showed the same boneheaded determination to escape

I doubt he noticed me as anything other than an obstacle to dodge until he tripped over my foot and went sprawling across the floor. Alex and Watson were only a few steps behind. The two guys dragged the dazed Jenkins back into the practice room. I glanced around; no one had even noticed.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

"Apparently there was some kind of miscommunication with the real cops." Alex said as he and Watson deposited Jenkins in a corner of the practice room. Watson took up his post at the door to prevent any more breaks for freedom.

"The guys who were supposed to be in the audience weren't there, or were in the wrong spot or something like that. Mr. Holmes seems well irate about it, though." Alex said. He took a fifty pence piece from his pocket and began flipping it into the air and catching it with the other, something which turned into a sort of Chinese water torture device after awhile. It was hypnotizing to watch as well. Jenkins the Stagehand/Saboteur's eyes were locked on the coin as it followed an elliptical orbit from hand to air and back again.

"Are you quite all right? Watson asked me.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You are sure you are not injured?" He seemed to be having difficultly reconciling me with the usual examples of womanhood he encountered.

"More bruises in the morning, probably." I shrugged and dropped another piece of information that would no doubt baffle the good doctor. "I've gotten worse playing soccer."

"Football," Alex corrected automatically.

"Whatever," I watched Watson's reaction out of the corner of my eye with interest. First was shock, passing slowly through disbelief before finally settling on careful politeness. Holmes burst in at that moment, trailing two uniformed police officers, providing welcome distraction.

"Bureaucracy, Watson," he said angrily. "The source of all foul-ups. Never trust the bureaucratic establishment to accomplish anything properly."

I glanced over at Alex, who had once said something very similar, but less printable. Alex just continued to bounce the pence piece off the floor.

"It seems we must wait until the crowds have left before the Black Maria will arrive to escort our prisoner. The manager, Mr. Squires, wishes to avoid all traces of a scandal." He sounded rather disgusted by the turn of affairs. I agreed with him; the British fondness for "keeping up appearances" could be incredibly counter-productive.

I was about to say something to that effect when I realized I could hear the sounds of the orchestra getting ready for the second half.

"I think I hear my piano calling me," I said. "I think the three of you can manage this."

"We shall try to get by without you," Alex said, without looking up.

The second half went more smoothly that the first. After nothing inauspicious occurred in the first half, the cast began to relax and concentrate on the music. My nerves relaxed as the threat of falling spotlights and ballistic sandbags vanished. Unfortunately, it was soon replaced by a completely different sort of nerves: the fear of nearly completing a difficult composition and blowing it on the last eight measures.

The last notes faded into the ovation of a sold-out crowd. The singers and ballerinas came out for their final bows, which seemed to go on forever. I tried to ease the muscles in my shaking arms. It was always like that after a performance. All the anxiety from before the show came rushing back as euphoria, but with the same effect as before, which was to reduce me to a quivering wreck.

The lights suddenly swung down to focus on the pit and the orchestra rose for their bow. The sudden glare of the lamps blinded me, but I managed to stand without falling over. I clasped my hands in front of me and bowed in the general direction of the house. It might have been my imagination, but there was a considerable upswing in applause as I did so.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed until my muscles stopped shaking, but any hope of sleep seemed like a distant prospect. The instant I stepped off into the wings I was accosted by Brook and Mr. Squires and dragged off to a VIP party going on in the foyer of the Opera House.

It was all a blur of silk hats and diamond necklaces. Brook and I seemed to be the main attraction for these opera-going elite. Names and titles came fast and furious while I nodded and smiled and pretended to be having a great time. I greeted some of them with the lone phrase of Hindi that I had picked up from Lispin, a girl in my chemistry section. It was a rather salacious greeting, but I knew none of them would know the difference. I doubted even the Army Colonel who had served in India would know what it meant, but I kept to the unoffending "Namaste" when greeting him, just to be safe.

It took a while for me to notice that the Opera contingent of the party was almost entirely female, while the VIPs were mostly male. More than one young Lord was chatting up a ballerina or actress and I suddenly remember that Theatre women occupied a rather grey area of Victorian social structure, somewhere between genteel and courtesan.

Brook was much better at deflecting amorous advance than I was. She simply smiled in her naive way and you couldn't help but treat her like a younger sister. I had to be rather firm with a couple of them.

The hardest bit was keeping a straight face while saying, "No, I haven't heard of this Kama Sutra of which you speak. Is it a song?"

Some paper or other had sent a camera, a huge black box which stood in magnificent isolation in one corner of the room. Brook and I, along with members of the ballet corps were herded in front of the camera for a photo, and I learned why people in old photos always look like they're at a funeral. Early cameras required a long exposure to actually fix the image onto the film, during which time you couldn't move without causing a blur on the finished image. You try smiling for about a minute without moving.

The photographer bossed the girls about in the timeless way of photographers everywhere, arranging us by height. More than one girl was battling a giggle fit before the picture was finished, and the grown men standing behind the photographer and making faces like thirteen year-olds weren't helping at all.

"Brook," I said after the photo. "I am going to my room and I am going to sleep till noon tomorrow. Perhaps one."

"You're sure you won't meet Sir Charles Barlow? He's been eyeing you all night." She said with a giggle.

"Definitely sure. Sir Charles Barlow will have to learn to make his move quicker." I left the after party with a sigh of relief. Normally the parties which evolved at the end of a gig were a blast, but these people were a lot different than my usual crowd.

I exited through the deserted house and headed straight for the backstage door. The alley itself was empty, but for the large police wagon parked at the far end. They had pulled up to the back of the Opera House instead of the front, so as not to cause a scene, but police vehicles tend to create a scene wherever they go.

Alex, Watson and Holmes were standing with their backs toward me, observing the commotion as Jenkins was loaded into the back of the police wagon. Jenkins had finally resigned himself to his fate, but police constables make a commotion wherever they go.

"Where were you?" Alex asked without turning around. Watson turned, startled to see that I had suddenly appeared behind them. I doubt Mr. Holmes knew I was there either, but he wasn't about to let on.

"After party. Y'know, press, pictures, the works."

"Hand out any autographs?"

"Couple. Would you like one? I think I've got a pen somewhere."

"I suppose I owe you thanks. Both of you," Holmes said, ignoring our little war of words.

"You're welcome," I said. "Happy to do it. We do it all the time, in fact," I added in a sardonic tone. Holmes considered this for a moment. I sensed a question building, but Holmes didn't ask it.

"Do keep in touch," Holmes said, and with a tiny flick of his fingers, a small rectangle of white paper appeared in his hand. Alex took it without a word.

"Come Watson. I believe we may yet be able to get a table at Simpson's." Watson tipped his hat at met and the pair of them strolled off, into the proverbial sunset. I peered over Alex's shoulder at the card. It read:

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

_**Consulting Detective**_

_**221B Baker Street**_

We looked at it for a long time before Alex spoke, quoting our friend Lei.

"'Who needs TV when your life's a soap opera?' Shall we go find that pub?"

"Yes. Let's."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	18. Interlude: Always Read the Footnotes

**_Interlude: Always Read the Footnotes_**

**_Doc Watson's Epilogue _**

Miss Solei and Mr. Alexander disappeared completely after the performance of the Opera. Despite the hue and cry which followed their disappearance, along with many thinly-veiled suggestions in some of the more lurid papers, the lady pianist and her stagehand were never seen again. Even Holmes confessed himself to be baffled at their disappearance.

"I would not have believed it possible," he told me. "But they appear to have vanished off the face of the earth."

The kidnapping case against Jenkins collapsed for lack of a victim to testify, but he confessed to sabotage and offered to give up his employer, the Baron LaValle. However, everything that Jenkins could tell us served only to damn himself further in the eyes of the law, until his solicitor advised him to hold his peace in the interest of his own defence.

Unfortunately for the Baron, Holmes was a much more creditable witness, and had the foresight to acquire some incriminating documents. The Baron's connections protected him long enough for him to flee England, but by this point Holmes had lost interest, declaring that he could not be bothered to settle petty feuds of impresarios.

So, as Holmes predicted, this case serves only as a footnote to an illustrious career, unremarkable but for the presence of two singularly mysterious characters.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	19. Sunday Next: A Place Like Home

**_Sunday Next: A Place Like Home_**

I was beginning to hate Sunday mornings. There was a certain fragile, unreal quality about them, not helped in the least by the events of Saturday night. I lay awake with my eyes closed for several minutes, trying to drift back to sleep, until I realized I hadn't woken up in the same bed for two Sundays in a row for the past two months, due to a combination of work, band gigs and time travel.

My eyes snapped open and I was rather disappointed to find I was still in my closet-sized room at the London Opera. There was something subtly wrong about the room. Alex was gone, but that wasn't it. I struggled to straighten the folds of my sari and was about to go look for Alex when I sneezed and realized what was wrong. There was a thick layer of dust over every flat surface and a haze of dust motes floating in the weak sunshine that streamed in from the light well. This much dust could never have accumulated overnight.

I flipped up the mattress. Our keys were in the same place we had left them, but they had developed a layer of rust which had stained the box spring underneath a dull red-brown. The cell phones were a total loss. The battery compartments had ruptured, leaking acid and creating a rather large hole in the box spring. My clothes, including the purple sari and my spaghetti strap shirt, remained in their normal condition, perhaps because I had been using them as a pillow in place of the block of wood that came with the room. The flip-flops, though, seemed to have disappeared.

I heard Alex's footsteps halfway down the hall. He flung the door open and we spoke at the same instant.

"We're home."

Alex stared at me. Then looked at the remains of his cell phone and nodded, realizing that I had made my own deductions.

"We need to get out of here," he said quickly. "I don't think they use these rooms as living quarters anymore."

"What time is it?" I said, gathering up my clothes/pillow. Alex glanced at his watch, which was mechanical instead of digital and unlikely to be effected by time travel.

"Ten-ish. And if it is still Sunday morning, I doubt there will be many people around."

Alex was only partially right. We nearly ran over a maintenance worker in the wings near the stage door. He stared at us in disbelief when we appeared from upstairs. We stared back for a long moment, until the worker shouted and we bolted, knocking over another maintenance guy in the alleyway.

One of the papers ran an editorial a few days later. It was the standard lament over the state of today's youth, using as a specific example two hoodlums who had broken into the London Opera in the early hours of the morning. That nothing was stolen, or even broken, was dismissed as an insignificant detail.

Alex dodged down a side alley and I followed, trusting in his knowledge of the rat's maze of London alleys and trying not to wince too much about having to run across London in my bare feet. We emerged on a busy street corner and a red mini Cooper honked at me when we crossed the street. I could have cried with joy and relief.

We were home.

* * *

Of course, there was hell to pay when we got to the actual places where we lived. Alex didn't have any problems, since his roommate worked the night shift and they hardly ever saw each other, much less noticed extended absences. I, however, lived with my bandmate and friend Lorelei, who had noticed the absence of the girl who usually bought the food.

I walked in the door, dropped my bundle of clothes on the laundry pile and collapsed on the couch to wait for my mind to stop spinning. I had the distinct sensation that the universe was laughing at me, and I didn't like it one bit.

Lorelei emerged from her room, put the kettle on the stove, and screamed like a banshee when she saw me. She yelled incoherently for a few moments before settling into her rant mode.

"I thought you two were dead in a ditch somewhere! I called the cops even! Not to mention I had to explain to James and Kevin why two-fifths of our band wasn't showing up for practice. Where the hell were you that you couldn't answer your cell phone for a week? I must have called fifty thousand times but all I got was that you were out of service range!"

Lei was just getting into her stride when the kettle whistled, breaking her momentum and allowing me to get a word in edgewise.

"I'll explain it to you later." I held up a hand to stop the inevitable protests. "I want to tell you, I really do, but it's kinda secret."

"What, so you're 007 all of a sudden?" Lei said sullenly, banging the tea tins around with a great deal more force than necessary. "What are you wearing anyway?"

I'd almost forgotten about the sari.

"We had to go do something." Now she was interested in spite of herself, and she started to forget she was pissed at me. Lei was aware of our tendency to get swept up in little mysteries, since she was a central figure in the first case Alex and I had ever worked together.

"I'll tell you everything I can, I promise. But not today. I need to get some sleep." It was the truth too. I was just glad classes hadn't started yet, or else I would have been in very deep trouble. But what I really needed to do was get my story straight with Alex. And get a new phone.

* * *

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


	20. Monday Next: Finale

**_Monday Next: Finale_**

The technician at the cell phone store looked disbelieving when I told him the battery had burst when I dropped the phone, but there was no denying the brokenness of the phone. After a close scrutiny of the warranty agreement the technician gave in and handed over the new phone. I spent a happy afternoon playing with the shiny buttons and reprogramming my phone book.

I also went down to the police station to inform them I had been found. The desk sergeant was quietly amused as he deleted me from the missing persons database, and I got the feeling this sort of thing happened a lot. Thankfully, Lorelei had neglected to tell my mom that I had disappeared, so I just had to call her and apologize for forgetting to call last week.

Alex called that evening

"Meet me in the library. The science stacks."

"What?" I asked, not sure I heard him right, but he'd already hung up. The only library he could mean was the University's main library, where Alex worked shelving books, although he tended to get distracted when he ran across interesting titles like _The Book of Were-Wolves_ and _The Linguistics of Swearing_.

As I waited for the bus to campus, I couldn't help but sigh with relief. As crazy and amazing as the 19th century had been, I had missed my hot showers and internet.

"That was good work, dear."

As I turned, a little old lady, smelling of lavender perfume, enveloped me in a brief hug. I stood there, stunned for a moment, and watched her walk away, pulling a tartan shopping trolley behind her.

It took a moment before recognition hit me like the Number 4 bus. It was the woman who had given us the gold coin a week ago. I ran after her, but she turned down an alley, and between one moment and the next she disappeared.

I stood there a long time. I had a strange and disturbing sense of being a small cog in a large machine. Wheels were turning, but I couldn't hope to see the whole.

Then a pack of freshman skittered by, giggling, and reality snapped back into place.

When I arrived it was nearly closing time and I had to promise the security guard I'd only be a minute. The science stacks were in the basement, next to a wall covered in ceiling-to-floor filing cabinets which held the University's microfilm library. Alex was the only person in the room, hunched over the microfilm reader. I was about to tell him about the old woman at the bus stop, but he cut me off.

"I wanted to see if that picture of you ever made the paper." He said, without looking up. "It's over on the other reader."

I peered through the viewer and saw myself, trying to look serious and not succeeding very well. The headline ran "_Bharata_ a Huge Success!"

"Now take a look at the next edition." Alex said, pushing himself back from the viewer. It was the same picture, but a different and considerably more sensational headline: "Disappearance and Sabotage!" and underneath in smaller letters: "A London Phantom?"

"Oh they didn't." I said.

"No, actually, they didn't. They just mentioned a similarity to the _Phantom_ novel, but that the culprit is definitely corporeal. Check this one out." He placed another roll of microfilm under the scope and spun the dial.

"It's the society pages of the _Times_. They're talking about the mysterious lady of the opera. She appeared for one night only and disappeared. Legend has that she was a spirit of the opera, who came to make sure that the performance went forward. A Miss Brook Waters made her debut performance that night, and went on to be one of the foremost opera singers to come out of England in the 19th century."

"They say that the spirit of the opera continues to follow the London Opera Company. Lucky coincidences are generally attributed to her intervention, and her appearance at a performance is said to be a good omen."

"You got all that out of one article?" I asked, a little stunned to hear I had been turned into a theatre urban legend.

"Out of all those articles." Alex nodded at a stack of microfilm rolls next to the reader. "I've been here all afternoon."

"And evening. They were closing up when I came in." Alex was surprised and looked first at the wall clock and then his watch to confirm it. He hastily returned the microfilms to an irate librarian for filing and the security guard let us out.

"You must be real keen to be studying before school even starts." He commented with an air of approval. I said something noncommittal and we headed for a café down the street.

It's location near campus made it a popular place for the college-aged crowd and the approach of the new school year made for a rowdier crowd than usual. Alex and I got a table in a back corner, but we still had to yell to be heard over the noise. On the plus side, it was impossible to eavesdrop in a place like this.

"We need a story to tell Lei so she'll get off my back," I told Alex after our drinks arrived. "I kinda sorta already implied we were on a case."

"I thought about that too. I looked through the papers of the last week and I found a small mention of a theft of a rare book from a museum in the Midlands."

"Which book?" I asked.

"I dunno. The paper didn't say. Oh," he said after he caught my look. "Let's say that it was an early edition of the King James Bible. I remember hearing those are worth a lot."

"So we were looking for an old Bible and we can't tell her many details because of the very wealthy client and the delicate nature of the people involved."

"Sounds like a plan. You know Lei, if we don't tell her anything specific, she'll just make up the details for herself. "

I really wished we could tell Lei the truth. Assuming she would believe us, that is. Alex and I had just experienced something that would knock the assumptions of physics and science into the dustbin, but we couldn't tell anyone because they'd assume we were lying. Or nutters. We had no proof, aside from an ancient photograph and a coin and even that wouldn't stand up in a court of law.

We sat in silence for a long time, while the noise and the people ebbed and flowed around us. I had the peculiar sensation of being in the crowd, but not a part of it.

"What's the matter? When you came into the library, you looked ... odd."

"You mean apart from everything else?" I sighed, and told Alex about the old woman. He sat in silence for a minute, staring into his cup, an odd look on his face.

"I still don't understand why this happened," he said, running his hands through his hair.

"The show must go on?" I offered.

"That's a stupid reason."

"It's the only one that makes sense." I said. I'd said it without thinking, but now the idea seemed plausible.

"It's still stupid."

"Reasons are just reasons; they don't have to make sense."

"I refuse to believe that it was some quirk of fate. That woman, this coin. It must all mean something."

"Why?" It was the wrong question to ask a philosophy major.

"Or else it means that none of us have any control of our own lives! It's all just fate and destiny and unseen machinations. What the point of that?" Alex said hotly, scowling. He wasn't a man who was happy with uncertainty, which was part of the reason he was so good at solving mysteries. He just kept pushing until he found an answer. The downside to this approach was that sometimes, other people pushed back.

"Maybe," I said, thinking carefully, "maybe somebody wanted Brook to get her debut and if we hadn't been there to play piano and catch the saboteur she never would have become famous."

"But why have us do something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things? Why not have us do something useful? Like kill Hitler or save Gandhi?"

"Okay, so maybe that's not the reason. Maybe it doesn't have to have a reason. Maybe it just is."

I wasn't much happier about than Alex was. Events ought to have reasons, and things ought to make sense. But I was beginning to realize that the universe was a whole lot more interesting.

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'" Alex said. I grinned and returned one of the few bits of Shakespeare I had ever memorized.

" 'The time is out of joint. O cursèd spite, That ever I was born to set it right!'"

Alex laughed and I saw a familiar look in his eye. Already he was plotting an investigation into the Mystery of the Old Woman and the Coin.

"It really happened," I said finally. Alex didn't answer at once. He took out his wallet and withdrew the gold coin and a small white business card with one of the most famous addresses in all of fiction written in black copperplate script.

"When faced with the impossible…" He said.

"Go for the merely improbable." I finished.

* * *

Three weeks later I was staring at the blinking cursor on my screen. My history essay had dwindled out two pages before the page requirements. History class had taken on whole new dimensions after our trip to the past. It was more interesting for one thing. Names and dates were no longer abstracts on the page, but actual people and times.

A sudden thought struck me. I opened a new document and began typing.

"_It began on Sunday morning. It might be more correct to say it all began on a Saturday afternoon…"_

**_FINIS_**

_We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." - T.S. Eliot_

* * *

Author's Note:

Phew! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

If you happened to remember the first version of this story, thank you so much for reading it all again. I hope you found it entertaining. Please let me know what you thought! Pretty, pretty please, with sugar on top!

Even though I don't publish any more, I do keep an eye on reviews. If you have a question or correction or random thought, I'd love to hear it.

Cheers!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.


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